I often think of the body as a vessel of unspoken knowledge, a landscape that holds within it the imprints of all that cannot be voiced. We move through the world, unaware that each step, each gesture, is a manifestation of the truths we carry but cannot speak. In every sigh, in every clenched fist, there are words that have no home in language, truths that live in the quiet spaces of our being. The body is not simply a vehicle; it is a chronicle of all that has been endured, loved, and lost. It remembers in ways the mind cannot, tracing the lines of old wounds, of long-held grief, of unshed tears.
And yet, we are so often in search of clarity, of understanding that can be neatly wrapped in words and concepts. But perhaps, there is no clarity in truth, only a deeper understanding that comes with the weight of experience.
Perhaps it is only in the act of living—of enduring, of moving through time—that we begin to comprehend the full measure of what we know. The body knows what the tongue cannot speak, and in that knowing, there is a form of wisdom that transcends logic.
It is a wisdom that asks no questions but simply is.
I have learned, in my own way, that some truths cannot be understood in the way we desire. They are not meant to fit into the neat boxes we create for them.
Instead, they must be felt, carried, and lived. And when they finally break through, it is not with the force of words but with the quiet power of being, of knowing without the need to explain.
The truth rests in the body’s knowing, in the way it carries what we cannot say. And perhaps that, in itself, is the truest form of understanding.
The tongue may never be able to carry the weight of certain truths, but the body will always know.
And in its knowing,
it will continue to move,
continue to speak in the silence of its movements.
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