detail from: Krk.art@designe

THE VOICE JUST AWAKENING

By Ilija Šaula

There is a voice within a person that has never learned to speak. It remains silent because it belongs to a time that precedes every word—a time older than language, older than fear, older than the world we have built around ourselves like a transparent and fragile fortress out of a need for security.

This voice eludes reason and cannot be reduced to the body. It inhabits that noiseless space within us that opens only when the noise of everyday life recedes, when the lights dim, and when a person lays down the roles they have learned to wear as their own, freed from every mask and every need to present oneself. It remains outside the rules, currents, and constructs that shape the external world. It is untouched by the languages of ideologies or the rhythms of the market; it is faithful only to what is recognized from within, without the need for proof.

And what is recognized in this way is always simple in its essence, though it may not be easy. It always leads back to the human being.

In that muffled layer, there is a memory, but not a pictorial one filled with recollections; rather, it exists as a state of being. A memory of what we were before we agreed to names and roles, before we began to measure ourselves through functions, numbers, and affiliations. Of a being that walked the earth simply to belong to it, that looked at the sky out of a need for understanding, that knew that meaning is a foundation that never loses its value.

This presence remains within us. Silenced, withdrawn, yet constant. It patiently awaits the moment when we will give up the need to be what we are not, and allow ourselves to be simpler than we think we are permitted to be.

A human being is, in their essence, a witness. A witness to light and darkness, a witness to meaning that cannot be calculated, and a witness to one's own inner truth.

That is why this voice is emerging ever more clearly today. Like a gradual return, something familiar rising from oblivion, reminding us of what was lost but is still alive.

Since we live in a time when one form of the world is slowly exhausting itself under its own weight, we expect that this is the boundary beyond which a person begins to stand in the fullness of who they are—or it is a transition in which the old recedes and the new does not yet have a shape but is nonetheless sensed.

What is coming does not need a name; it is familiar to us. Nor does it have a shape that could be imposed. It is a noiseless, internal shift—personal, yet powerful enough to change the way a person stands in the world.

A return to oneself. A return to a meaning that remains even when everything else changes. A return to a truth that seeks no confirmation.

And perhaps this voice will first take shape through those who still know how to listen. For poets do not speak louder than others. They simply remain open to what is already there. They recognize the difference between the visible and the experienced, and they know that the invisible often carries a greater weight of reality.

That is why I bring this as a silent prayer.  A touch of what already lives within a person—constant, patient, and ready to appear.

For light does not belong to the structures of shaping. It belongs to the one who is capable of recognizing it.

And sooner or later, humanity will see it again.

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