Silence is a funny thing
It has a way of acquiring meaning.
It has a friend called Stillness.
If you remain with Silence for too long,
She comes along after a while.
It’s funny how silence can be enforced.
A logical solution in this world,
Where we, one of the most inefficient species
On the planet, decide:
We want our inefficiency to be efficient.
Funnily enough, the same comparison applies
To classes of human beings:
Haves and have-nots. Men and Women.
Silence is often for those who have-not
While those who “have” scream at the top of their lungs.
It’s like we are really children,
With the added ability to have sex.
And added incentive to control other people.
People with candies scream because the shape isn’t right.
While a world of hungry children,
Would be glad for a rotten piece of bread.
Silence is often assumed to be a characteristic.
And it is, but not acquired by choice.
Invisible threads of privilege support our puppet shows.
It’s funny how we all forget,
That plants grown without water and nutrition,
Or without fertile symbiotic soil,
Tend to die or become stunted.
Consciousness is funny,
You think it’s you.
Strange when you are half-supported by the best threads.
And the other half is dangling because some cheap paper tore up.
Perspective is the funniest. It gives rise to other inefficiencies.
It’s giving somebody your threads,
Because you think they have only paper.
An inefficient process for someone,
Who cannot prevent their threads from being stolen.
And with people who paste paper over threads,
To maximise capital.
I don’t speak of Stillness very often, though.
Because stillness is love.
And I like to protect that segment of my existence
From the multi-level system of inefficient puppets.
That measures everything by efficiency,
Which is just a justification for inefficiency, in the end.
Love is the calm that washes over me,
When I don’t have to be a puppet.
It’s a rare, unintended side effect,
Of partial isolation. It’s lying down with my parents,
In silence, saying nothing, absorbed in thought.
But still not alone. Its when my silence breaks for a moment,
And the whole world doesn’t matter.
Stillness is delicate. It spoils with display.
They call it love. But their love is not stillness,
The calm of not having threads.
It’s pulling an act for the benefit,
Of nobody. Not for enjoyment.
Subtle distinctions are funny.