In a cool, shaded forest you sit on a stump staring down at your feet. You awaken to the music of a forest imploring you to stand and amble forth. There is no beginning, middle or end–it has always been there, making itself heard to raw and open hearts. Entranced you follow a sound that insists you drink in the cool breeze; the soft, slippery green moss; the forest creatures scurrying amid the foliage.
It is the sound of a heartrending loneliness that will not let you feel alone. It places in your lap the consoling paradox that the universality of loneliness connects you to everything. The story is sung in an ancient language to which you are not meant to be privy. It is the sound of a mystery that should never be unraveled, only felt. And so it is that I have already said too much.