The Language of Awareness

No one taught me this language in school.
They gave me numbers, rules,
the stories of kings and wars —
but not the alphabet of silence,
not the grammar of breath.

Awareness has its own tongue.
It speaks in pauses,
in the turning of leaves,
in the ache that softens when I notice it.

It is slower than speech,
but deeper than thought.
When I listen,
I hear the sky in my chest,
the river in my veins,
the timeless “yes”
that holds all my wandering.

This language asks nothing to be memorized.
Only to be remembered.
For it was the first tongue we ever knew,
before fear taught us to shout,
before hunger made us run.

When the world learns again to speak it,
we will be less fast,
but more capable.
We will be less certain,
but more whole.

The language of awareness waits
on every tongue.
We need only to fall quiet
and let it speak.

Reflection

This poem envisions awareness as a forgotten native language. We are fluent in speed, reaction, and survival, but illiterate in presence. Yet awareness is not something foreign — it is the first and most natural capacity we are born with. Infants live in it; animals abide in it. Only as we grow and learn the urgency of fear, ambition, and competition do we forget.

Unlike spoken tongues, the language of awareness does not need to be taught step by step. It is always available, waiting under the noise. To “learn” it is simply to remember it — through stillness, noticing, listening, or surrender.

If humanity could make this language as common as reading or counting, we would change not only how we live but who we become together: less hurried, less fragmented, more whole.

The Door Was Always Open

The door was always open,
but I ran past it,
chasing the fire of survival
as if speed could save me.

I lived in the fever of alarm,
quick as lightning,
sharp as the hawk’s cry,
yet blind to the valley below.

One day, too tired to run,
I slowed —
and saw the open doorway
shining quietly in the wall
I thought was stone.

Inside, there was no rush,
only a vast stillness,
a language older than words,
a seeing that needed no eyes.

There, I was not fast,
but I was whole,
and what I touched
blossomed into wisdom.

The door was always open.
It was me who had to stop running
long enough to walk through.

Reflection

This poem speaks to the contrast you named so well: emergency mode versus awareness mode. In survival, the body and mind are fast, but the field of vision narrows. We see threats, not possibilities. In awareness, the pace slows, but capability expands — like a lens widening to take in the entire horizon.

The door represents the truth that this deeper awareness has never been absent. It isn’t something rare or exotic, reserved for mystics. It is always present, waiting in the background, like a quiet room inside our own home. Most of us, trained by fear or necessity, keep sprinting past it. But once we pause — from exhaustion, curiosity, or courage — the door reveals itself.

And when we walk through, we discover that wisdom, compassion, and connection don’t come from being faster, but from being fully present. This is the language humanity has forgotten to teach, though it is as essential as learning to speak.

Makes up a classroom, admits it’s fake, but still insists it proves his point.

That's... surely an interesting take

(For context the guy is joining ICE and encouraged people to do the same)

In a thread about an author making anti-trans books for children by the way

Young Reform council leader George Finch says that the education sector is a conveyor belt of socialist wokeism.

Simultaenously he would like people to stop pushing dog whistle, divisive politics.