Even then, when I am most still, I am moved by my breath. And by the subtle lap of my own emotions playing quietly upon the shore. I am moved by the rich landscapes of my imagination, which imitates my wishes, and brings them to life. Always in nature, a stillness precedes expansion. This does not mean there is no movement, but nothing to excess, and all movement is within arms' reach. It's not easy in this climate and culture to accept the value of inertia, and even parts of my own psyche gather in droves to condemn it as laziness, apathy, or resistance. But there is a little flame inside which knows its own fragility within the movement of things, and at times it's best not to disturb it with too much airflow.
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Tell me, does anything ever truly stand still? I have felt at times as though the world is falling - so fast - and I'm hanging in midair, the parts and pieces of everything slicing through the space close to me, my hair suspended, my limbs floating.