Not unpleasant sleeplessness

I do not sleep much, but that’s okay. It is not an unpleasant sleeplessness.

How does dew encounter the flower?

I awoke and woke myself once again to the silence. The silence of the fog engulfed mountains. The silence that begun in Hungarian. Then I awake in Slovenia to find I am once again innocent to the world, encountering my surroundings in a non-word sensuality. Baby phrases that miss their point and slide down the rocky mountain, only to be lifted up again and carried out beyond the surface, to the very essence. It is this non-word sensuality that creates the between me and the world, all the senses alive to the vibrant life behind every tree, plant, object. They joyously meet me as I encounter them, without enveloping, enfolding them in my words, limiting them to mere nouns and adjectives. They come alive as my new eyes widen in wonder at their immensity. A child’s senses, word-limited but world-encountering, vibrant world. How fortunate the baby is, who day by day, takes in the world beyond words and images, who lives in the world, encounters it through his very skin, smell, taste, a sensuous ball of wonder. Sound has no label. The rumbling of the tractor’s motor confused with mother’s stomach rumblings, as one ear lies on her and the other encouters the outside, perhaps mixed with father’s snoring. Oh the beauty of not being encased in words or perhaps knowledge.  Is it words that encapsulate knowledge? How can one imagine that this sensuous innocent being is not blessed with a knowledge, the knowledge we all seek? As if the moment we gain words, we struggle ever after to obtain non-word Nirvana, non-word encounters with the world. We are quite silly really, we humans. But I will take home my Hungarian lesson, the linguistic silence and the rebirth to the world. I will take home this lesson. Through the silence of the night comes rebirth. To be born out of the depth of silence. Traveling has always healed me. There are no words to express anguish and suffering, so they silence. They whimper off into linguistic oblivion, home where they belong. And I am left reborn, to encounter the world, a new day, with scant words to entrap it. This new day opens itself to me, reveals its mysteries, like the flower opening its petals to the morning dew. I lay myself down among the petals and drink.


About wilhelminatunnels

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