Stillness is terrifying.
When I was young I used to imagine Wizard-Of-Oz-esque witches waiting to grab me and turn me green like themselves. They’d lurk in the corners of the darkness, where the stillness bounced off the silence. Sometimes I’d scare myself into a weird kind of crazy where I thought that those same witches would reach their hands up from the dark caverns of the toilet while I was going to the bathroom. I would pee really loudly, to get rid of the nothingness then.
Stillness is home.
While music is home, sometimes silence is home too. Night is comforting; it wraps it’s heavy blanket around me and bids me rest for a minute. It’s comforting. Sometimes within the nothingness of crickets or leaves breathing I piece molecules together and they dance around me and assure me life will go on. Sometimes I believe them.
Stillness is God.
Be still and know that I am God. Listen. Shut up. Forget the mundane. Watch the trees sway, they’re speaking old truths. Stop your mind from turning. It isn’t a prayer wheel. Let it rest. Let it meditate on the touch of the air against your cheeks and the ground beneath your feet.
Stillness is death.
Rigor mortis leaves you cold and hard and unfeeling. You’ve been here before but this time it’s so final; so eternal. Even hope doesn’t pink your lips.
Stillness is life.
Sometimes we find newness in the strangest places. Birds’ nests grow amidst dead leaves and hope springs eternal, even amidst death. Treasures in hidden places, you know? Just don’t forget to remember the stars.