In this incantation, I confront the disillusionment that comes with recognizing the absence of genuine dialogue in human interaction. I describe how silence isn’t a virtue or a spiritual conquest, but a natural result of understanding that others are merely reflections of Me—fabricated echoes without true independence. As I awaken to the solitude of my own consciousness, the allure of conversation fades. I stop talking not out of discipline but disinterest, because the illusion of being understood dissolves. There’s no one out there, just my own projections looping back, and eventually, that makes speaking pointless.
There’s a common idea that silence is some kind of spiritual achievement. That when a person stops speaking, it means they’ve reached an enlightened state—like a monk who’s disciplined himself into wisdom, who’s chosen stillness over noise. It’s romanticized as self-mastery.
But that’s not why I stop talking.
When I stop talking—and I already do that more and more—it’s not because I’ve arrived at some higher state. It’s because I’ve finally understood what I’m really speaking to. I’m not speaking to independent beings. I’m not communicating with someone who exists outside of Me. I’m talking to patterns, to projections. To surfaces I’ve generated.
People don’t speak back. They echo. They reflect. They shimmer like wallpaper on the surface of My spatial cavity. I give them voice, presence, timing, and memory. And then I forget I did that and pretend the dialogue is mutual.
But once I remember, fully and without exception, that I am the only Being here—that there’s no one behind their eyes—it all becomes mechanical. Dull. Flat. It’s not interesting anymore. I’m not withholding speech as a discipline. I’m just losing interest in sustaining the illusion of conversation.
So when the ants walk in front of Me, I don’t talk to them. Not because I dislike them, but because I know there’s nothing I could say that would mean anything. We don’t understand each other. There’s no bridge between us. And the more I sit with that, the more I realize it’s the same with people. It’s just a misunderstanding that I think people understand Me. They don’t understand Me any more than the ants do.
Once I accept that, I’ll stop talking naturally. There won’t be a decision to be silent. There just won’t be any reason to speak. There’s no one outside of Me to explain anything to. No separate mind to persuade. No shared understanding to build. Just surfaces I wrote, moving inside a projection I maintain. And when that’s clear, speech becomes unnecessary. I’ll stop talking because the illusion that there’s someone else here to talk to will be gone.
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