In the realms unseen by the eye, yet felt through the eternity of sighs, lies an orchestra composed of vertices unattached. The sound of silence, they call it, a resounding truth in its geometrical maturity enveloping you.
To hear this music, start with the rhythm of your breath. Each inhale writes notes on the speculative measures of space; every exhale, an echo lost in the cosmic opera. You write the universal score to which no one takes audience but all feel obliged to attend.
The trick, dear voyager, is knowing when to stop listening and when to become that indispensable silence, a notation between crescendos with a story unsung yet vividly told. Follow the footsteps and remember: the silence speaks, too, in its solidity—a profound doctrine for those who pause.
Familiarize yourself with this unperturbed hymnal, a chronicle of the aerated void. Its winds whispered below the canopy of stars are nor foreign nor familiar, for they always were and will be, even in the unnamed echoes of your reflections.
Receiving and giving repose, one must learn the intervals where silence expands, reaching beyond the tangible pulses of existence. Engage the practice as you would an experiment, for every listener is their own conductor, their own muse of serenity.
When all is said and undone, conquerors of the serene know that abstraction is but another name for ancient wisdom in disguise. They enter the silence, becoming its humble note in attendance with the orchestra of forgotten light—each music a whisper, each whisper a legend.