There is a difference between silence and quiet.
There is a difference and there is a lake, and the lake shows it.
For the lake is never silent and is surrounded on all sides, all the time.
The trees in formation pay their respects, and the hills look down upon the lake with the eyes of some long-past seismic event.
And what of the lake itself, you will ask. What of this lake, and how is it quiet?
The lake looks flat, looks still. Looks silent.
But things are always leaving the lake.
Sometimes things go in, or dance along the surface, recognising the difference between themselves and the lake.
But more things leave the lake.
And you can see things leave, breaking for air, for contact, for light.
All the time quiet.
Under the surface of the lake, this is never quiet and silence does not exist.
Here lies everything that cannot leave the lake, blind and yearning and there forever.
Moving in rhythm with the undertow.
But everything beneath, everything concealed is kept from us.
So we stand at the shore,
near the trees, near the hills,
and we think quiet is the lake.
I am looking at the door,
Through the door, past the door.
There is this thing between where I look.
This is called distance.
There is this thing between what walks through this door.
This is called anonymity.
There is this temperature which shifts with the motion.
This is called longing.
There is this time which passes as I look through the door.
This is called waiting.
I am waiting at the door, past the door, through the door.
Out the door, and at last,
I turn and close the door.