It slips away, so easily that I have no problem understanding ten years of writing silence. I am one place, then I am another, knowing not whether to look back or look forward, while the silence, that vast space of time that lies between the two, becomes the first thing to be forgotten. Life in two steps, the first and the last, the unconscious swing of the leg, guided perhaps by subconscious intent, resulting in a movement seemingly void of any obvious destination.
Where was I going, when I started out? Did I know?
Answers don’t wait for you at the end of a journey, but instead hide in that place between the steps, nestled away in the time that is so easily forgotten. I have to believe this, because not once have I ever reached a place that held an answer, but instead always find myself arriving with that gnawing, aching feeling that what I need is something I may have spotted from the corner of my eye as I stormed on past. It is that thing I stepped over, or around, or kicked on through getting to where it is I am always going. Where I am now.
I say all this because I feel myself slipping again into silence. I feel that familiar space building up around me, the comfort of being lost inside myself. Rising and falling, riding between my own steps with eyes half-closed, arms spread wide like a dreamer in flight. The answers pass by me, one by one, on the ground far below, but as anyone who has flown in their dreams can tell you, there is no looking down, no stopping, no desire for anything to come between you and the air.
And silence, like dreams, will eventually end, and words will rise as readily as the dream of myself sinks back down to the ground.