| 2 MINUTE READ |
The year was 1987. The lead protagonist stepped out of his office to quietly melt into an anonymous sidewalk in the closing scene of the film. I leave the theatre before the lights come on, surrounded by an evocative closing soundtrack. In slow and measured paces, I find my way into the 122 bus back home. On the front row seat of the upper deck, the grimy heat of the city disappears into a solitary escape. Observations when the mind is quiet have a texture of their own.
I was in search of a voice, the kind that would anchor me into it and allow me to see the world in a manner that was both artful and intuitive. The world that draws us so deeply into it, even amidst its slow fade into the relentless shadows of oblivion.
In distraction our lives lose the element of essence. Between those we love, those we hurt and all those in between, there are a multitude of constructions of who we are. It is the burden of dealing with that which invites us into reclusiveness. But silence can be the simplest bond that holds us together. It allows my own self love to flow towards you, tentative and unspoken, like a fleeting hope willing to remain suspended without expectations.
The incandescent effect of our memories forms the faint backdrop we wake up to each morning. But what remains without these memories is the unseen essence of who we are, the one that makes our destinies meld and our voices surrender.
In that spacious silence, the way you slowly drink your cup of coffee is enchantingly beautiful.