You will hear it, eventually.
The whispers of life, they are quite; very quite. Sometimes it sounds like a school-boy dragging his canvass shoes in the corridor tired, thinking about buried treasures waiting to be excavated, other times it’s like a train passing through a dark tunnel.
The sound of the rush of wind in an empty vessel, that’s what life, is. And we are the bottomless vessels, the empty incarnations of whispers.
Money morality sex music jealousy love pain acid peace hate fame adrenalin booze fear cult food Povertyreligion Travel hemp Obsessions war Toy-trains charity pleasure take your pick and plug up the vessel… still the whispers find a way out.
Seeking ultimate truth is easy. Living with it is tough.
You are born then you die.
Line yourself with false sense of standards, confirm to sold-out notions. Find a passion block all the whispers with experience. Till your echo carries applaud, laughter, cries.
Keep hoarding adjectives into the vessel. Happy. Rich. Young. Beautiful. Kind.
Death is not a fatal eventuality, hearing life is.
It’s like standing in a dark tunnel and being hit by the force of two trains simultaneously doing 150 on opposite tracks with you in-between. Whispers amplify into howls of desert storm. Emptiness shines on moonlit bed-sheets. Passions stagger down the street. Somewhere a hollow echo is weeping your name.
That’s when everything falls apart, when the sanctity of a cosy reason of existence is violated the body becomes a bottomless vessel again. An empty passage for whispers unhindered by passions of existence.
Now. Your echo carries you.
All that you hoarded before won’t make sense because reason has lost meaning. Like the castle made on clouds you know you can walk because you have built the floor, each stone laid; hard-work of years but eventually truth remains- the stones are clouds.