"I saw a woman, back turned to me, shoulders covered by the masses
of her own dark hair. Suddenly, she turned round, and I saw that
her face was wet with tears. And when she looked up at me with my
own eyes, I saw that her sorrow was my sorrow, that her face was my
face, that I had caused her sorrow and that she had caused mine,
that the sorrow of the world was our sorrow, that the face of the
world was wet with our tears, and that our tears filled the oceans
and rivers, and came down in rain, and watered the world with
sorrow. "And the thing I regretted most was that I could not tell
her of my sorrow. The wall stood between us, choking my words,
rendering her gaze impenetrable, our bodies immobile. I walked away
without speaking, as if silence could do justice to an ocean of
feeling, as if cowardice could possibly be mistaken for strength,
as if time would erase all memory, as if life were unreality, a
fiction, a story that could easily be rewritten. And now I walk in
the shadow of the wall, whose escarpment engulfs me like the
towering cliffs of a canyon, and my own muteness cries out to me
like a madman whose screams can be heard high above the wind, and
my muteness mingles with the muteness of others, and my silence
with theirs, and my screams with theirs, and I feel myself drowning
in the silence of those screams, and I know it as a silence that
encircles and enfolds us all." - from The Empty Cup
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