Searching for a silence that never comes, the leaves of the tree that my window looks out onto quiver in the way of an impressionist painting, thrilling me like a child. But most of the time I do not notice this. The mind is pulled, is laden, becomes heavy and murky, simple and dumb, open and spacious, without substance, but rarely quivers like those leaves. Where is the inner brightness of childhood? Its crisp presence?
