They are silk balloons, these hard-to-wrestle-to-the-ground monsters filling our days. That’s what they are, silk balloons, these hard-to-satisfy (though hard to live without) desires filling our days.
First there is nothing, or nearly nothing. First there are only whispers of many leaves that sound like a distant river, not too large, nor too far away, or like many, many small and gentle hands clapping, leaves clapping, rustling. Then there is a movement of air, not the volume or strength of wind, just a movement slightly less still than stillness. This is the sound of potential, the getting ready, the about-to-fill-you, or (to be more exact) the you-getting-ready-to-fill-it.
For the saints, this whisper soon dies down into the perfect silence: the stillness that is the true god—and destination—of the mystics.
Saints, though, are few and far too far between.
This tide, then. This ebb and flow of consciousness carrying on its slowly rising and sinking shoulders the flotsam of many long-ago ships: silk balloons all, uninflated, un-breathed, un-revived, memories un-lived as yet.
The wise see them for what they are: uninflated silk balloons that house no urgency whatever to draw breath to inflate. The fool, however, cannot help but rushing air into these empty and meaningless sacks, for they grow so useful when it comes to killing time.
The wise know the tide will soon retrieve them and return them to sea, to quietly sink them among a million billion trillion other little pasts.
The fools know the chance may never come again and so rush life into these contours to make them rise and cast an oh-so-real (so they say) shadow.
In many lands, in many hearts, this is what passes for life these days.