In the grand orchestra of life, where each thought is a note and every silence a pause, have we considered the power of uncomposed music? The symphonies that whisper in the void, unplayed and unheeded, might just outshine the cacophony of our ponderous reflections.
"To think is to compose," they said. "To remain silent is to orchestrate." Ah, sweet ironies.
Behold the abstract conductor, wielding a baton of dreams. His symphony: the fog of forgotten thoughts, the crescendo of potential that never was. A masterpiece, truly.
The false crescendo of clarity, the quiet diminuendo of confusion. And so, thoughts rise, a soft sonata of indeterminate key and tempo, receding into the aether.
Shall we then applaud the silence, the void where symphonies are born only to die? Or shall we embrace the irony, the inaction that speaks louder than the loudest thought?
Inaction: the symphony of the actionless, the opus of the oblivious.