In one of my digital sketchbooks, a face I saw in a dream.

I think you speak a language we all understand, but seldom choose to. You speak the language of color, of sound, of smell.  You speak the languages that we cannot write or even translate but that we understand implicitly and respond to instinctively.  When we feel our feet on the Earth and gravity holding us there, that is your language.  When we use our hands, so brilliantly articulated and ingenious, that is your language.  When we taste the coffee in our cups, that is your language.  When we watch the birds wheeling overhead, that is your language.  When we kiss each other either in loving or in sexual gestures, that is your language.  All of these things are language.  It is overwhelming how much you talk to us, and so, sometimes, we retreat into ourselves, forgetting the ongoing discourse which we sense but refuse to digest.  Then suddenly the world seems mysterious and fearsome.  The longer we walk alone in this way, the less we recognize the words that you speak with every moment and act of creation.  Sometimes in desperation, we start seeking you again, but we have lost our way by then, and instead of looking at the Eden that you have made for us, which surrounds and supports and engulfs us, we look into books or films or drugs or other things, hoping they will reveal you.  All around us, you shout and shout and we look into our books and our dreams and our pictures saying "where is she, where is she?"
It is important when we read a book or watch a film, or listen to a song that we understand that these are only attempts at translation.  Even the holiest of books can only go so far, because the greatest book is not one that we can put on a shelf, it is the one that surrounds us.
A book is written in a moment, but it cannot unfold as a moment does.  What we read is something brought out of a moment, and perhaps reflective of that moment, but when we read it, that moment, that thought, that inspiration has already passed because you have been creating instant to instant between the time of the writing, and the time of the reading.
We are only corpuscles, not of knowledge, but of almost knowledge, supposition, theory, opinion.  We move like blood cells in the stream, moved by brownian motion and as dashed as a wooden ship on a vast ocean.
Within that ocean, we have only limited control.
Regardless of what we choose, the movement will continue.  It cannot be frozen.  It can be described, but never perfectly.
At Babel, what we are taught is that you baffled out tongues.  That it was a curse due to our own pride and self aggrandizement.  But I look and see a gift in the baffling of tongues.  It was a way of saying "words - words may describe the world, but they are not the world."
Sometimes, not always, but sometimes; it is important to take a break from thinking, writing, reading, seeking and just be on the Earth.  Feeling that gravity.  In such moments, there is no urgency, no lack, no imbalance, no search for self.  Existence is its own answer to every question.
Looking out, the answer is everywhere in front of us.
Looking in, the important thing is to remember that everything outside is also a part of what is inside.
We are all made of the same stuff as stars and planets and novas and black holes.  Our matter is the same matter.
All matter is a part of something larger than itself and so, we are all a part of something larger than ourselves.
Our choice is a simple one:  accept that and enjoy it, or close our eyes and hide from it.
Why is it that so frequently, we choose to hide?