In Still

It is the sharp reprieve exalted from that moment you recapture breath – like reclaiming a leaf of written note in the wind – to hold at least this fragment stagnant as the whirlpool of the world dances nonchalantly. There is novelty to he found in stillness when silence is impossible. It is rather a silence of motion than an aural emptiness – for the sounds of bustle saturate our daily lives so homogenising perception that we are myopic with monotony. The lack of discernment disseminates depression amongst those of us who long for definition and the dismal disposition to which we surrender is despondent indeed. So when that leaf is caught, that breath recaptured, that moment held in thought – we celebrate a short euphoria of triumph against ourselves.


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