Oh, silence, you were the guide to my becoming. Before any words were ever escorted out of me, feathery lightning fell from some passing muse bird.
In the beginning, there were only cries. See how it developed: the cries became babble, the babble words, the words peacock tails, the peacock tails chants of protest (and calls for status: I am this or that, I am one who believes this or that, etc.), until finally (but not always) there envelopes a wise silence. Silence that makes way for images more exact than any verbal expression, for ideas that words climb and climb only to always slip off before ever mounting. A chosen silence, silence that acts as an indicator of openness, not absence. Silence that is itself a beartrap of words, that lures towards ultimate ideas without scaring timid listening prey away with bumbling, sudden movements of convention or cliche.
What you call a movement, I just call pacing. Antsy from a lack of meaning, untuned voices rise like balloons out of a child’s slippery fingers. The cries increase in volume, not for a sky full of forgotten gods, but for one little bit of colorful helium still faintly visible that, as such, signals the end of the party.