There Is a Well Here

There is a well behind me––an old well. It has been covered by a layer of wood, also old; weakened by the constant rain and the salt that comes with the tropical wind. It has seen many years go by.

No one remembers why there is a well here, in front of these crossroads. There are no houses around. There is no settlement; no permanent resident in this area of the desert. We know from old maps that there is a river of water flowing through in front of me underground.

Sometimes I imagine the dark waters flowing from left to right. Silent. Not reflecting any light, for there is nothing to reflect. I wonder then if in the absence of the solar light this river of water perhaps reflects different shades of black.

And if it were to reflect different shades of black, who would be there to witness?

Behind me, there is a well. The well has been closed off for a long time. Unused, it is being fed by the silent waters––the dark waters. What kind of thirst, I wonder sometimes, are these waters meant to satiate?

I lend an ear to the rushing of the waters. I hear off in the distance the rustling of silent feathers. I close my eyes. I listen to the sounds of the world. They become unimportant. I listen to everything around me as I listen to the falling rain. Not one sound is more important than any other sound.

My thoughts… the constant stream of words and images and symbols, one following another, without any real meaning or logic to it. I sit here and I listen, and they flow from left to right. Moving inside me with no apparent truth in any single stream of thought; with not one image pulling me with it. I simply watch and observe the current that moves, and the lack of meaning in every sentence that is uttered does not deny the fact that there are different shades of non-meaning––different aspects of this unending stream of non-truth, of illusion.

One after the other they flow under the surface of my consciousness and I sit here and I listen for the rustling sound of silence behind the sounds of the world.

The sounds inside me become just as unimportant as the sounds around me. Suddenly, I feel myself immersed in darkness––darkness of light and darkness of sound, sustained in a space of infinite nothingness, only made trickled-reflections of passing tenuous light, lit by an ephemeral attention that is no longer focusing on anything in particular.

 

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