For those of us who crave Quiet,

who suckle on silence as if it were Mother’s milk,

in every moment,

a trade must be made,

a resultant price paid:

do we the “self” isolate

or do we “other” engage?

The latter can feel like flagellation

when the Quiet Soul

has reached

its social limitation –

that tipping point,

the point of no and diminishing return,

where absolute quiet

is all one yearns-

gasping for it as if a fish out of water,

the mind in an uproar –

all chaos and disorder.

But then…

the consequence

of a life lived largely withdrawn,

where solitude is the norm:

a nagging,

disconcerting

loneliness settles down,

deep into them dry bones-

a thick film

centuries old,

sending gentle warnings to the Quiet Soul

that this human form

was crafted

to be ever

connected.