To learn the music of listening, the delicate practice of lowering expectations until one can hear the smallest creak of the world unfolding. Let the silence swell, ballooning between words and gestures, a space both terrifying and profound. Within that suspension, attune to the secret currents, the instructions that emerge not as sound but as a deep interior pulse; a code transmitted through the trembling of ribs, the small contractions at the corner of the eye.

Silence, is never empty, rather a dense radiance, a bell jar filling with the granular drift of awareness. Here are whispers, always, but not the childish kind that carry rumours or blame, instead, the whispers of a heart learning its own boundaries, testing the smooth chill of glass, skating lightly just above the surface of sleep. The heart presses its ear against the membrane of dreams, listening for weakness, for possibility, for the faintest pattern. Drift in the in-between, alert to every flicker in the dark, and surrender to the slow eddying of thought, trusting that somewhere in the quiet, intuition sharpens itself against the emptiness of the night …

© KD.W.Heim

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