I think in language. To not think in language is almost impossible: to think in symbols, colors, light, but possible. Deep into a meditation session, at one point many layers of thought crash at once. I feel them like an imagined stress. They are there only because of reasons that may not be apparent. The conditioned reactive mind has a name. I am becoming aware of this mind. The layers of discovery become more and more time consuming to peel off. I focus on my breathing. I that I believe to be I tries not to think. At some point, there is no attempt at anything. Ideas, good or bad, attach themselves or at least attempt to. Narratives upon narratives falling and crashing into, unto space that had previously been at peace. I used to think I was these narratives. When there is silence of mind, afterward, I imagine perhaps this is the peace of god that is often talked about in certain circles. Perhaps it is merely more mind reaching for the forefront of a newfound terrain, one that has always already been unrecognized until now. And then, still later, returns the chaos that I had tried to escape: the endless noise forcibly writing narratives to consume Time.