But I do have psychological gravity. I converge on a center.
Pre-dream I envisioned myself as a plant branching towards the sun of my soul. I saw myself contort as I grew, the limbs folded in and over, towards light. Towards exposure of essence.
Resting, today I watched the world. Out of deep internal silence, dry mouth, or fear. I watched as the world expected. Telling myself I did not need to perform incessantly, reminding myself that death would deny me that kind of eternity, common to waves and light rays.
I tried to strike the flint at my heart, to generate the energy, the draw. The showman meets expectations. But in my closet mind, I relived my practice of silence, begun in childhood. Extracting the sound from footfalls, the sighs from breath, to be the walls. To be structural and so inviolate.
‘So calculated, so calculating’ – that is the critique that goes with acting internally. But the world inserts itself, impeding known movements. And the soul moves.
I act quietly to avoid preemption – the louder footfalls. I act quietly to act at all.