The quiet whispers come when I’m most at peace. I’ve heard them in the early morning stillness, my wife and son breathing softly in sleep, or on a January evening, bundled against the cold, wandering through familiar streets. They find me in the forest, where even the bare trees of winter block the wind, and the silence offers warmth I didn’t expect.
When the whispers come, I listen with everything I am. I let my mind stay empty, removed, and free of judgment. The silence around me, the backdrop to everything, becomes a guide. If I listen long enough, the path to the source of my true thoughts reveals itself—not always as I imagined, but often as something greater, something undeniably me.
Writing from this place feels like uncovering treasure: unexpected, profound, and filled with pieces of myself I didn’t know were waiting to be found.