The Millstones Turn: On Coherence and Collapse
To The Listener Who Wasn't There
Communication is often mistaken for clarity. We imagine that if we choose the right words, the right tone, the right form, we will be understood. But coherence in communication is not merely a matter of linguistic precision. It is a matter of timing, alignment, and proximity—a fragile choreography between speaker and listener.
Our lives unfold like gears in a vast mechanism. Each person stands on a different wheel, turning at a different rate, shaped by distinct events, memories, and shifting Overton windows. These windows—what can be said, what can be heard—open and close with time’s grinding rhythm. And when someone finally speaks, when the words are ready, the wheel may not have turned enough. The listener may be too far, too misaligned. The speech falls into the void, carried away like dust in the wind.
This is not a failure of language. It is a failure of resonance. True communication—where words reach the one they were meant for—is rare. It requires a moment of alignment, when the gears click, when the windows open, when the listener is close enough to receive. These moments are fleeting. Often, they are missed.
The millstones turn. And with each rotation, a universe of possibility is crushed.
We wanted to say something. We tried.
But the moment passed. The listener was not there.
And the world that could have been born from that exchange—of understanding, of connection—collapsed before it could begin.
We live in a kaleidoscope of shifting lenses. Each configuration is unique, unrepeatable. A single missed moment can unravel coherence, leaving only fragments—unsent letters, unheard gestures, silent echoes.
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