A half-remembered dream

If there were some way to shut off the noises in my head, like turning the shower faucet off, I wonder what the silence would say—in soft, undulating, rhythmic pulses, in a wordless language with a metre all its own…how would the silence speak to me, and how would I understand the wordless tongue? Like learning to swim underwater, readjusting to a new medium of communication, trying to get the feel of it.

Would I morph into a gilled being, with sensory organs sensitive to the new medium, fins beating time in keeping with the metre…and glide on my belly upon the submerged silt of centuries, prodding the floor for scattered treasures whose form and shape are both alien to me.

Or would I just drift, a note amongst the endless notes, in adagio, riding the spine of the dervish…seeking the stable current that will break my fall.

Or maybe, in the eye of the blaze, buried deep in its white-hot belly, I will be tempered for eons…steel strengthening in wait for her master to cast her in the mold he desires.

Searching, falling or waiting…would I still be me, or just someone else’s half-remembered dream?