Perhaps hermits don't. Perhaps misanthropes don't. Perhaps those medicated out of their minds and no longer in touch with their souls don't, either.
But most of us seek some acceptance from others in who we are and what we do and what we feel. My challenge—all my life—has been to stay sensitive to this 'acceptance affinity' and not just say 'fuck the world' and seal myself safely away forever from such external feedbacking / reinforcing / at times, life-confirming appraisement .
That has not been an easy homework assignment. You see, I have all my life gotten an endless parade of 'persona non grata's in not so many words. In fact, in no words at all.
Has silence ever spoken to you? If so, I hope such moments have been moments of precious inspiration as you might encounter on a warm summer night, stretched out, perhaps, on top of an old picnic table in the backyard, opening yourself unto that magical interaction known only between heaven's scattered stars and you.
So I have danced under a full moon in the silent land of the dead. And I have run endless miles in a cemetery dreamland privy to the peaceful wordless dreams of forever. And I have at certain times in my life remained actually and conceptually wordless for days at a time and have gloried in such an existence unmediated by words. I have known such silences. And they have been blessed.
But I have been continually assailed with the 'other silence', too. The silence that would detest but instead saves itself the energy and never does ever bother itself to say: "Go away." "Never come back." "Begone." The unspoken 'persona non grata.' The silence that deadens. It is a curse, perhaps, for some of those who open themselves unto a gift of psychic knowing. The 'others' see you coming. And often, in dread, turn silently away. If not immediately, eventually.
But that silence that deadens—the never spoken but seemingly intended 'you are not wanted'—that has haunted me for so much of my life has seemed to have lost track of me lately. It has now failed itself forever, I do believe, and faded into my nothingness. So long dead silence, I, and hopefully my still receptive heart, will miss you not.
Say, it's only a paper moon
sailing over a cardboard sea,
But it wouldn't be make-believe
if you believed in me.
Yes, it's only a canvas sky
hanging over a muslin tree,
But it wouldn't be make-believe
if you believed in me.
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