Of Eternity and Transience

As I sat at the dimly-lit fitness corner of my estate, reading Kerouac's The Dharma Bums while downing beer—a habit of drinking while reading it has grown into of late—I was gripped by a moment of clarity in which I saw the books I am to write. In that brief space of time everything was especially clear; I quickly came home, settled down at my computer, but my fingers immediately fumbled. The image wasn't lost, only I once again became conscious of what I will bring into existence. It happened thus: the other day, a thought which I had been ruminating on some time ago resurfaced like a flash of enlightenment which made clear in me God's existence. How do I know? His silence is too loud. For a few months now I have been asking Him why why why, and all that time He has kept quiet. His refusal—or incapability—to speak draws all the more attention to His presence. I finally understood that silence is the divine language. All the sounds and all the furies of men are but futile. What remains silent is eternal; the moment it is given a name its nobility wanes and it begins to die. So is the love which we speak of, and that other love which we do not speak of, which flows between our cells and transcends all languages. Yet, we all fail: we cannot attain total silence: Babel fell. And here is the oxymoron, my dilemma—I cannot speak of something I know within me which will die in words!