I admire a woman while she sits on a couch in the slant of sunlight. I watch the lit up dust particles dance beside her head, and I imagine what it would be like to be her. The background comes to the foreground and the music reaches its orgasm, the moment she stands up, as if all has been planned in advance. The music fades again and the woman exits the room.
I'm alone, staring at dancing dust. The music has died completely. Silence begins its deepening. I'm aware of my skin and breath, the itchiness at the corners of my eyes, and my ache for Truth's divine kiss.
There are many who fear the silence, but not me. Within it, I let myself drop into colors and dreams and lands unknown. I lift my arms to fly upon the exhilarating wind of creativity. There's nothing but possibility and how is it that I ever thought otherwise? Let not my hope disintegrate, lest I drown again in wastefulness.