The indication although effortlessly perfect, and unlabelled can ofttimes seem otherwise in imageries … imperfection is fortunately, part of the resonance of the middle C.
We’ll start there.
Why middle C may perhaps be beyond comprehension to most whirling at a higher frequency but all reverts back to any note on the scale, for each timber stirs a subset of itself in the whole before it reverts to the stillness of silence itself.
Even before the hammer retracts from the string; before the finger follows the hand to rest; before the last reverb leaves the eardrum into the stillness of the moment. In the silence, there is the speech, the message, the … warmthness. Even in a conflict, friction of a relationship, of war, or buy-sell business tug-of-war, is the dance, the speech, the nature … of the Sinfonia.
The fall of the upsurge wave into itself, which is part the collective ocean is in itself, perceived as creation yet in fairness but movement, dance, the fractalisation of the flow. The weight in all that is found in its polarity and is equally balanced in the harmonisation, irrespective the impressions.
Each moment, is a message. Silence is channelising. Conveying that which Is.
Yet in our hurriedness limited by the limitations we set ourselves in the in-time, are oblivious to the answers to our quotidian questions. We do not make time to stop.
Rest. Two minutes.
Just two minutes. Not centuries.
Breathe and listen.
Slow down. You’ll eventually arrive … there. Wherever, does it really matter?
Paths. Religions. Ideas.
An arid desert. A flowing stream
Everything is wet. Superfluid. Graceful.
The first drop that falls in the Ocean of salt becomes part of that ocean, of saltiness and that drop that meets in the Ocean of sweet, becomes part of that sweetness; and between them there’s a separation, delimitation, the circumference yet in the whole is complete in that it presents the flow of being, of all that is perception, in the perspectives.
For all froth, spume are just a handful of the Ocean
What is of earth will return to dust; what is of water, to Waves; what is of air, to breath; what is of elements, to fire; and what is of fire, to Earth. Yet all these as a whole, is the form — The nature, of being … not I, nor Am for that in itself is the veil that conceals.
Counter; Counter; Clock; Counter
The journey itself is the birth and afterlife,
Between Dawn and Dusk