“Therefore, speak, speak at any price, say no matter what, since all words have equal value and all say the same thing, all repeat tirelessly the same call for help.” — Samuel Beckett
If we are to take Mister Beckett at his word, then ours is the language of smoke signals and morse code, ciphers of broken glass from which we architect sentences, personas, cities, worldviews that are both fragile and elaborate.
And what of silence, then? Sometimes golden, sometimes malignant–silence is the fox in the garden, the hours that slip away unnoticed. Silence is the music of the stars.
Listen. And speak when moved to speak–whatever words, whatever sounds–because this unrelenting call for help, when enlarged beyond the confines of self, are also the flagrant embers of a cosmic torch song, or the notes in the score of a film with music unending.