In the silence I leave this human form at rest for my return and become a work of art in a gallery, one that is the colours of my soul.
Before every great idea there is a silence of the soul, of the self, so welcome it and listen well.
In the silence there is warmth because I feel the love of my pilot light grow stronger. I feel my energy reach out into nature and energy flow back.
Whatever can silence be? For is there not always the sound of your own heart? Just as with whiteness there is light, and blackness is a canvass for dreams; if there is a soul present, there is always something. And so as the quietness grows deeper and I hear my own steady rhythm from within, I call this silence.
There is a silence to my soul; I am fall leaves under frost. I feel the chill in my blood, coldness bringing the synapses of my brain to a stand still. Part of it is a pain, yet one I can endure, one I can sleep through night after night without the anaesthesia of false hope. This is my winter; I wait for spring and the chattering of the birds.
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