There is no silence.
It is quiet, no manufactured noise,
no machinery running in the background
or dog barking down the street,
but a hum, a teeming, the earth breathing,
the planets spinning,
the synapses pulsating in concert.
There is always a scent.
No smell or odor perhaps, always a taste.
Eyes closed, nothing to see
and the world of vitreous, swirling,
dancing between the eye and the lid,
tiny red dots in the blackness,
more solar systems than in the night sky.
There is no movement. No touch.
No muscle activity, no strain,
still to a meditation and yet the force
of an unfulfilled levitation.
The motionless effort to resist dead weight.
The soul. This is life.
The quiet spirit the holy men speak of.