What do we really know of silence?
The pause after comment, that drags on until realized; a response will never come.
What are we left with, but our own interpretations?
What is held there, in that space that fills? Is it
beyond one’s mind, surely yes, to question the space that holds the multitudes without words and without action. It is someone else’s battle, someone else’s story, someone else’s pause. Mine?
There is a narrative in your head; yes? I can see it there, the story you form as you read and see, think and be.
The battle wages on behind the veins of my forehead. The story grows in heat as you feel your pulse rise.
But alas, who are we to interpret the places where God herself rests upon the bed of someone else’s life?