Different, and the same...

Silence is barely empty when you punctuate it with so many things that can mean more than all those thousand worded delusions that I have been chasing all my life.

It is, full. And it is empty.

I think I have all the answers to that one question.

I think I know.

I know that days will still run as an open tap; that years will flow as running water from therein. Years flow from days. That's what I have come to know.

I know that words will get stuck like that log in that dream, causing dams to form of muck and grime and sand and silt.

I also know that I will change. And I will remain the same.

And the running thread will always be that place of Silence on the
piece of green mat; my earth. My knees stuck there; different, and yet, the same.

I know that certainty will falter, and be sturdy in its affirmations;
that it will give birth to new confidence,
and bludgeon some assurance to an unnatural death.

And after all is said and done,
I know,
that I will be
as I have been;
And you will be
as you have been.

Different. And then, too, the very same.