How quick we are to fill the silence the noise,
the longing with movement, the craving with more,
to busy the ache before it feels itself,
to outrun the tremor of not knowing.

We reach for rhythm before listening for pulse,
for certainty before the darkness has spoken,
piling gestures where presence was asked for,
calling it devotion, calling it care.

We learn early to mistrust the open space,
to seal the pause with plans and promises,
as if stillness were a question we must answer,
as if waiting were a failure of will.

Yet the soul isn’t impressed by speed,
nor persuaded by effort without reverence;
it leans instead toward the unguarded moment,
where nothing is added and nothing removed.

There is a chamber beneath the constant reaching,
where desire relaxes its practiced grip,
where breath slows into its ancient memory,
and attention becomes a form of prayer.

Here the sacred does not arrive with signs,
it does not raise its voice or demand belief;
it rests quietly in what is already here,
patient as light on an unmoving surface.

To stay is the discipline we resist the most,
to remain when there is no instruction given,
to feel the wanting without obeying it,
to trust the pause as a teacher.

And slowly the hunger relearns its origin,
the noise thins into something like awe,
until even the need to name the mystery falls away,
and silence is no longer empty, but complete.