This morning, I woke up to the same sunlight pouring in to my bedroom window and I thought, the sun moves silently, like clockwork. Somewhere there are children laughing under it, while the sound of water rushes from rivers, showers, boiling tea pots, guitars. All things beat to a life rhythm, over which we as humans have no control.
The same sun rises over Paisley Park today, but in the home of our Prince of Passion, there is silence. “Silence”. How could that be, God? Will you not explain the mystery of this deep silence? I am listening.
While I listen to the slow hum of my dishwasher, it is hard to fathom that this day, there is silence in the body of a man so animated with passion, that he lived compelled to share it through music. Blissful, provocative, symphonic, chocolate, creamy, dreamy, cacophonous, stimulating music. This is the artist, known as Prince, saturated with party, pathos and brilliance.
Why God are his hands so abruptly silent?
When describing Prince, “unresponsive male” doesn’t work for me, for any of us. It has been made clear to me that our souls, our brilliance, our passions, have nothing to do with physicality. Without them we are silent.
Only God knows where you are sounding off now.
Prince, Michael, Bowie, Miles. I dream of Angel’s overwhelmed by your gifts. But thank you for sharing. Your music is the only instrument I have to forever assuage the deep silence within my heart.