Blissful Silence

The silent nomad, gently moved through life content to not speak even once. He did not utter a sound, and had grown to forget how his very own voice sounds to him. Upon reflection, he vaguely recalls a time long-since passed, when he felt inclined to respond to things. Analyzing, reflecting and responding to people in a thoughtful way. 

Always respectful, always courteous. And he had a powerful way with words. People listened when he spoke. His words carried a weight and depth that often went unrivaled, despite being soft-spoken and of calm demeanor. Like a loud whisper, his voice was cerebral and visceral; it cut right through people's filters and facades, and hit them right to their core.

But he'd also realised, people saw and heard the thoughts he'd shared, with a limited perspective. A lot, unfortunately got lost in translation, and his words were at times twisted. All too often, his thoughts were misunderstood; causing and creating conflict and confusion. He felt his good-intentions, were all too easily unheard. Maybe he was too wordy and intellectual, he'd thought at one point in his past. Maybe people only want to hear what they think they are hearing. 

So he tried to fast from words completely. His family and friends were astonished and even amused at first. But frantic worry began to slowly surface--especially when his loved ones had come to realize, that maybe, he'd be going purposefully mute, indefinitely. His mother and father, especially, grew distressed and frustrated that their well-spoken and thoughtful son kept his thoughts completely to himself. "God gave you the ability to talk, so don't make a mockery of him by going mute!"

Ahh, but the immense peace and joy he'd found in the solitude of silence. When that need to talk and reply to everything had grown tiresome and weary, he'd suddenly realized that he heard life more clearly, sharply and precisely. The constant game of human conversations, became something frivolous and time-consuming in his eyes. When he'd gone quite, so too did his mind grow still, coherent and sensitive. He would often go for long walks by the river: nature, his music. He heard the soft rustling of the leaves, the faint and comforting chirps of the birds around him. The waters splish-splash pitter-patter as the river's rivulets cascaded away in every direction, north, south east and west. He felt humbled by the grandiosity of the world around him.

His dreams that he at times would recall vividly, transformed and morphed into something tangibly... spiritual. He had never been a strong believer in a specific God, or an all-knowing, all-controlling creator, but he regardless grew to see that life had always been a mystery. That life had a deep meaningful purpose. What that purpose was, had evaded him and he thought that he may never truly come to understand why we are created as we are. But that fascination with life grew more palpable and nuanced the longer he'd fasted from words. Although he did not speak aloud to anyone, even himself, he oddly enough began to talk to animals while asleep. 

He would fly to mesmerising turquoise green and emerald bodies of water that could be called ponds or swamps. Playful laughter emitted around him, when he'd go to these majestic and divine places. That kind of lighthearted and effortless laughter that was contagious and made you feel warm and gooey. He'd wander around aimlessly, but without any specific agenda or goal in mind. Just floating about, carefree, like a wild wanderer. Like the wind. At ease, and in his element. The dreams, however, grew more urgent. Like he had been instructed to under-go a mission of sorts. Again, what the purpose of these nightly quests were, had evaded him--but he nonetheless felt called-forth to accomplish something of immense importance.

The years passed, and he grew accustomed to being a symbol of silence. But what he'd been unable to share, was the depth of his dreaming abilities. How would he even find the words to describe that which is considered by most as miraculous and even, dare I say, mere superstition? The biggest silver lining was that he didn't have to explain to anyone, and words would not do his nightly adventures justice, anyways. His thoughts grew abstract. He learned to think deeper, and greater, but not with language, but with emotions, and feelings--without even the need to label or identify what each specific subtle but powerful emotion was. He just existed, and inhabited them fully. Overtime, his family accepted him and his... peculiar way of existing. 

Oddly enough, He became an elderly village story teller. What did he tell stories with, if not words? With his tranquil, serene and dizzying facial expression that had become plastered and etched deeply onto his face. His face spoke of depths unheard of, of lands unvisited; like the deeper parts of the oceans, where humans could not safely venture forth without advanced instruments such as submarines and oxygen-tanks. He didn't need that kind of high-tech device to dive deep into his consciousness though--to dive deep into the unknown and often unvisited parts of the human psyche. What he needed only, was blissful SILENCE