A dead soul has nothing to offer. That same soul finds receiving too difficult. And though it exposes its every nerve to this world's flamboyant offerings; more and more it finds only a gurgle at the other end of longing's sucking straw.
Attention is difficult to hold. Action, stress and tension are everything. One can no longer settle for stillness. Simple holds as much scent as filtered air. Truth tastes bland. Common makes our eyes droop. Painlessness is numbing. Deafened by the banal, we no longer hear the bird's song, a child's laughter or the falling rain.
We have hidden ourselves in incessant stimulation, with a constant need for more. Entertainment, news, radio--all violent and divisive. It's us against them! Adrenaline--our drug of choice. We curse the storm that disconnects us from our satellites; and grief-filled--we wail: "I'm bored."
Perhaps it would be more accurate to scream at the imposed silence: "You've laid-bare my emptiness, my ignorance...my utter lack of content! You've shown me that I cannot pray, I cannot speak, I cannot love! For I have been exposed by this violent infliction of tranquility--and look! No peace lives within me. I have nothing to offer.
"All of the joys found in sunsets, crashing tides, towering mountains and family's embrace--all of these delights are empty to me. I need more!"
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