I read once that silence is always present. Even underneath the roar of a passing jet engine, stillness is there. You can’t always hear it, but that doesn’t alter the reality of its being.
Standing in the graveyard that evening, the mumble of traffic and passing trains made its way through the surrounding trees, but the quiet was undisturbed. It felt tangible, in calm, welcoming endurance.
The people who had lived and died held that space amongst their ageing tombstones, and wove a larger web of time around those who came to pause with them. In such a place, one’s own humanity and small woes are realigned, and you understand that life is a gift, a gift beyond marvelling.
Fleeting, small, and fairly insignificant. This is your life, in the field of memories nearly lost in lichen where all who pass through are reminded of their own finitude.
What fragility is this! To know that now is yours but once. Use it well, and strive to bring joy to those living their own short flutters of existence around you.

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