BE still.
Although this sounds like an instruction meant for the restless, it is one of the most difficult acts a human being can perform.
What is silence, really? How do we define it? Is it merely the absence of noise or is it something far more intricate, an internal discipline rather than an external condition? At first glance, silence appears simple: no voices, no movement, no disturbance. But the moment we attempt to inhabit silence, we realise it is anything but empty.
There is sound in everything. Even in the quietest room, the body hums, the breath moves, the heart insists on rhythm. The world itself never truly stops speaking.
Silence, then, is not the denial of sound but a different way of relating to it. It is an awareness rather than a void.
Every sound we make serves a purpose. Speech communicates, movement signals intention, noise asserts presence.
Humans are creatures of expression; we announce ourselves constantly.
Yet beneath this continuous external output lies a paradox: deep down within us, there is no sound.
- Amplified Silence earns Masapa global accolade
- Amplified Silence earns Masapa global accolade
- Arrest prosecutors Reza, Mutsokoti: Mtetwa
- Arrest prosecutors Reza, Mutsokoti: Mtetwa
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Thought has no volume. Meaning precedes language. What we experience internally is silent, even though it gives birth to everything we later express.
Others cannot hear our internal voice; they only encounter its translated echoes, that are, words, actions, reactions.
Silence, therefore, is not the absence of love, energy or emotion.
It is not a lack of creation. In fact, absolute silence, if it were possible, would signify the absence of life itself.
Creation requires vibration, frequency, movement.
Different sound frequencies create different entities, different realities.
Even stillness carries a subtle resonance.
The universe does not operate in muteness; it operates in balance.
This is why no one can sustain absolute silence.
To exist is to vibrate in some way. To breathe is to participate in sound. To think is to disturb stillness.
Silence, then, is not a permanent state but a practice. It is a deliberate return to the centre.
We can practise silence.
Not by forcing the world to quieten, but by choosing restraint. By pausing before speaking.
By listening without preparing a response.
By allowing moments to pass without immediately filling them with noise.
Practising silence is an act of humility; it acknowledges that not every moment requires our voice.
Stillness goes even further. To be still is not to be passive, but to be attentive.
It is the conscious decision to stop reacting and start observing.
In stillness, we meet ourselves without distraction.
We hear the subtle movements of intention, fear and desire that are usually drowned out by constant activity.
Modern life resists stillness. Speed is rewarded; noise is mistaken for productivity.
Yet without stillness, action loses direction.
A person who never pauses becomes reactive rather than intentional.
Stillness sharpens action; it does not negate it.
We should slowly practise being still.
Gradually. Gently. Not as an escape from life, but as a way of engaging with it more honestly. Stillness teaches discernment — when to speak, when to act and when to remain silent.
It reminds us that not everything needs to be said and not every impulse needs to be followed.
Ultimately, stillness is a discipline, not a destination.
Silence is not emptiness; it is space.
And in that space, clarity emerges.
