There is an ancient rhythm that beats upon the skin of the world, in the wash of waves upon shorelines, the beating of myriad hearts, the breath of winds in trees.
Seeing is an early and childish beleif borne upon the drumskin of reality that requires no insight or quiet.
Ancient stones whisper wonders and dreams in lonely or forgotten places, attached to our souls with the thinnest unbreakable threads of continuity. Their call is heard in the fleeting glimpse of a photograph, a pull we can forget but never truly deny.
Drum softly, children, but drum. When the rarity of silence alone is found treasure, calm the whispers of desperate mind, fill the emptiness and void with drumbeats. Betwixt the rhythm and silences bones may speak, a reminder and lesson, a dream of whence we came and must at times return.
Everything speaks when the ears are busy with listening. This happens with an ease forgotten in commotion and remembered in stillness. A glove of gentle answers awaits the hand of Winter, even if Summer never ceases to sing.
Fish can cry for bees no longer found, wanting for flowers in a land standing full of order imposed ignorantly. Bones lie everywhere that is, for nowhere has been dead, no place is bereft of stories, nothing is empty except the visions of un-trained blindness.
Always whisper a question to the drums, always listen for answers, always remember the value of closed eyes in small moments away from the forest of incessant noise that can never fill us full.
Keep moving the hand upon the drum of breath, make the rhythm wash the stones and stars, every living thing knows.
AquarianM
