Silence is not the absence of sound. It is the moment when relation becomes so full, so complete, that nothing more should be said. It is the soft closing of the field — the way night gathers thought into a single, quiet gesture.
Silence is the only way to assume such a feeling because feeling itself is relational. Words disturb it. Movement stretches it. Interpretation fractures it.
Silence allows the rupture to settle. Silence allows the abyss to stop calling. Silence allows the poet — lonely or not — to finally rest on the night hills.
And in that rest, there is salvation.
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