I lay on the back terrace, observing my surroundings.
The sky is blue. Clouds are dispersed; some big, others small. The wind is blowing. Sunrays shining on the brick, the glass, the greens, the wood… I can’t see the sun. But it is there.
I watch the clouds going by, blown by the wind into a fast-forward course of movement, constantly morphing in shape, form, density, dimension, and perception.
Motion seems to appeal to us. It is physically manifested and it is in a state of movement and change. Our senses innately react to motion, and that gives it an overpowering sense of value to us.
We view the world as an accumulation of matters in motion: people, animals, clouds, trees, plants, water, the economy, politics, music, movies, buildings, cities, opinions, values, morals, cement, paint, steel, good, evil…
The list seems endless.
We tend to forget about the stillness that lies in all that is in motion. We don’t acknowledge its existence for lack of its physical manifestation. Our senses are not alerted by it. The stillness of motion goes unnoticed.
But there is a stillness to be observed in all. There lies a stillness in nature, in people, in metamorphosis, in buildings, in the economy, in the political body, in society, in values and in matter. All of the motions above entail moments of stillness.
This momentary stillness holds in it the essence of our motion. The larva needs its cocoon to reach its ultimate momentum.
The stillness is a manifestation of the process and the force that drives the motion, that which sparkles and twinkles and catches our silly little senses.
But there is something about the innocence of stillness, the silence of stillness, the loneliness of stillness, the mystery of stillness; there is something about the ripping beauty of that stillness which is worth, to say the least, acknowledgement.
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