Unseen Unheard Quotes

Our duty is wakefulness, the fundamental condition of life itself. The unseen, the unheard, the untouchable is what weaves the fabric of our see-able universe together.

All is as if the world did cease to exist. The city's monuments go unseen, its past unheard, and its culture slowly fading in the dismal sea.

We are lost, she and I, unseen and not seeing, unheard and not hearing, unknown by others.

For everyone is pained by the thought of disappearing, unheard and unseen, into an indifferent universe, and because of that everyone wants, while there is still time, to turn himself into a universe of words.

The master sees beyond what is obvious. He sees the unseen, feels the unfelt, and hears the unheard. He looks below the surface for what is hidden and so finds the great heartbeat of the Universe. He smiles, knowing it is his heartbeat, your heartbeat, our heartbeat.

The world is awash with colours unseen and abuzz with unheard frequencies. Undetected and disregarded. The wise have always known that these inaccessible realms, these dimensions that cannot be breached by our beautifully blunt senses, hold the very codes to our existence, the invisible, electromagnetic foundations upon which our gross reality clumsily rests.

For all these years I kept my mouth closed so selfish desires would not fall out. And because I remained quiet for so long now my daughter does not hear me... All these years I kept my true nature hidden, running along like a small shadow so nobody could catch me. And because I moved so secretly now my daughter does not see me... We are lost, she and I, unseen and not seeing; unheard and not hearing, unknown by others.

I knew how to be a friend, a lover, a partner. I knew how to make someone feel cherished and seen and listened to -- everything I had myself always so desperately wanted and been afraid I might never have because I was so used to being overlooked.

Photographs are the reflection of untold stories, unseen beauties, unexpressed emotions, and the unheard songs of life.

The irresistible proliferation of graphomania shows me that everyone without exception bears a potential writer within him, so that the entire human species has good reason to go down into the streets and shout: we are all writers! for everyone is pained by the thought of disappearing, unheard and unseen, into an indifferent universe, and because of that everyone wants, while there is still time, to turn himself into a universe of words. one morning (and it will be soon), when everyone wakes up as a writer, the age of universal deafness and incomprehension will have arrived.

Those we love don’t go away. They walk beside us every day. Unseen, unheard, but always near. Still loved, still

At times poetry is the vertigo of bodies and the vertigo of speech and the vertigo of death; the walk with eyes closed along the edge of the cliff, and the verbena in submarine gardens; the laughter that sets on fire the rules and the holy commandments; the descent of parachuting words onto the sands of the page; the despair that boards a paper boat and crosses, for forty nights and forty days, the night-sorrow sea and the day-sorrow desert; the idolatry of the self and the desecration of the self and the dissipation of the self; the beheading of epithets, the burial of mirrors; the recollection of pronouns freshly cut in the garden of Epicurus, and the garden of Netzahualcoyotl; the flute solo on the terrace of memory and the dance of flames in the cave of thought; the migrations of millions of verbs, wings and claws, seeds and hands; the nouns, bony and full of roots, planted on the waves of language; the love unseen and the love unheard and the love unsaid: the love in love.

The entire human species has good reason to go down into the streets and shout 'We are all writers!' For everyone is pained with the thought of disappearing, unheard, and unseen into an indifferent universe and because of that, everyone wants, wither there's still time, to turn himself into a universe of words.

The Sin Eater walks among us, unseen, unheard Sins of our flesh become sins of Hers Following Her to the grave, unseen, unheard The Sin Eater Walks Among Us.

We are…the painters of unseen images. The singers of unheard songs. The caretakers of what has been lost. We are that which you choose to ignore.

Those we love don’t go away. They walk beside us every day. Unseen, unheard, but always near. Still loved, still missed, and very dear.

There are many versions of a story. Many sides and lenses that can distort, change, illuminate what is seen and unseen. What is heard and unheard. What is felt and unfelt. In the end, truth is but a facet of a diamond, a spark of ray from the sun, a forget-me-not flower seen from the eyes of a bee. What lives and breathes as reality is a perception, so who is to say what is possible and impossible?

When you see something, it can’t be unseen. When you hear a sound, it can never be unheard. I know, deep down, that this evening I have learned something that can never be unlearned. And the part of my world that is altered will never be the same.

The GhostWalker Creed: We are the GhostWalkers, we life in the shadows. The sea, the earth, and the air are our domain. No fallen comrade will be left behind. We are loyalty and honor bound. We are invisible to our enemies and we destroy them where we find them. We believe in justice and we protect our country and those unable to protect themselves. What goes unseen, unheard, and unknown are GhostWalkers. There is honor in the shadows and it is us. We move in complete silence whether in jungle or desert. We walk among our enemy unseen and unheard. Striking without sound and scatter to the winds before they have knowledge of our existance. We gather information and wait with endless patience for that perfect moment to deliver swift justice. We are both merciful and merciless. We are relentless and implacable in our resolve. We are the GhostWalkers and the night is ours.

If you feel unseen and unheard, create your own lane.

The subtlest beauties in our life are unseen and unheard.

Poetry unlocks that unseen world and that unheard language to the real world.

When you see somwthing, it can't be unseen. When you hear a sound, it can't be unheard. I know, deep down, that this evening I have learned something that cam never be unlearned

When you see something, it can't be unseen. When you hear a sound, it can't be unheard. I know, deep down, that this evening I have learned something that can never be unlearned

The birth control shot I was given before coming here was a joke, not just because Lowe and I are as likely to have sex as we are to start a podcast together, but also because he’s a Were and I a Vampyre, and we couldn’t reproduce even if we wanted to. Interspecies relationships are unheard of—if not unseen,

No. Depression is the unseen, unheard, silent killer. It is the pain that is too much to cope with, too hard to deal with and never understood. It is something that you can’t escape, no matter how hard you try it ALWAYS swallows you again. It constantly follows you around, like black smoke choking you from the inside out. Like a lion clawing at your heart and mind, eating pieces of you until there is nothing left.

The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard—both melting away, like the minutes that were falling from the spring of Time—through three dark hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light, and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.

The visionary is destined to walk in solitude. If the vision is truly original; If the vision is truly unprecedented; Then by its very nature, only the visionary is privy to its wonders. It is the burden of a single soul. Alone. For even the visionary must peel back, chisel and ax away at the status quo to eventually reveal for all humanity what is yet unseen and unheard of. The visionary is the sculptor releasing the vision from the block of stone that is convention.

Though I go, I will be present. We are on the other side of everyplace, so that you are never unseen or unheard by us. The Faraway is closer than your next breath. That is where we live. And

The best preparation I’ve come across is an open mind from a deep desire to live fully, an innate trust in ourselves or god or the universe to see the commonly unseen, to hear the commonly unheard and know the commonly unknown that we may take action. This preparation blossoms with the camaraderie of like-minded individuals who share their best, knowing our paths are individual. —Sharon Williams Prahl

And it entered my strictured heart, this morning, slightly, shyly as if warily, untamed, a greater sense of the sweetness and plenty of his ongoing life, unknown to me, unseen by me, unheard by me, untouched by me, but known by others, seen by others, heard, touched.

Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind. But to what purpose Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves I do not know. Other echoes Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow? Quick, said the bird, find them, find them, Round the corner. Through the first gate, Into our first world, shall we follow The deception of the thrush? Into our first world. There they were, dignified, invisible, Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves, In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air, And the bird called, in response to The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery, And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses Had the look of flowers that are looked at. There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting. So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern, Along the empty alley, into the box circle, To look down into the drained pool. Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged, And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight, And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly, The surface glittered out of heart of light, And they were behind us, reflected in the pool. Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty. Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, Hidden excitedly, containing laughter. Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind Cannot bear very much reality. Time past and time future What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present.

We are all hurting, you said. We are all trying to live, to breath, and find ourselves stopped by that which is out of our control. We find ourselves unseen. We find ourselves unheard. We find ourselves mislabelled. We who are loud and angry, we who are bold and brash. We who are Black. We find ourselves not saying it how it is. We find ourselves scared. We find ourselves suppressed, you said. But do not worry about has come before, or what will come; move. Do not resist the call of a drum. Do not resist the thud of a kick, the tap of a snare, the rattle of a hi-hat. Do not hold your body stiff but flow like easy water. Be here, please, you said, as the young man took a cowbell, moving it in a way which makes you ask, which came first, he or the music? The ratata is perfect, offbeat, sneaking through brass and percussion. Can you hear the horns? Your time has come. Revel in glory for it is yours to do so. You worked twice as hard today, but that isn’t important, not here, not now. All that matters is that you are here, that you are present, can’t you hear? What does it sound like? Freedom?

The GhostWalker Creed We are the GhostWalkers, we live in the shadows The sea, the earth, and the air are our domain No fallen comrade will be left behind We are loyalty and honor bound We are invisible to our enemies and we destroy them where we find them We believe in justice and we protect our country and those unable to protect themselves What goes unseen, unheard, and unknown are Ghostwalkers There is honor in the shadows and it is us We move in complete silence whether in jungle or desert We walk among our enemy unseen and unheard Striking without sound and scatter to the winds before they have knowledge of our existence We gather information and wait with endless patience for that perfect moment to deliver swift justice We are both merciful and merciless We are relentless and implacable in our resolve We are the GhostWalkers and the night is ours

There they were, dignified, invisible, Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves, In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air, And the bird called, in response to The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery, And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses Had the look of flowers that are looked at.

He told me the story of the butterfly emerging from the hard pupa. Its life begins as an “ugly” caterpillar. When the time is right, it forms a pupa and retreats behind its hard walls. Within its shell, it transforms into a butterfly, unseen, unheard. When ready, it uses its tiny, sharp claws at the base of its forewings to crack a small opening in the hard, protective outer shell. It squeezes through this tiny opening and struggles to make its way out. This is a difficult, painful and prolonged process. Misguided compassion may make us want to enlarge the hole in the pupa, imagining that it would ease the butterfly’s task. But that struggle is necessary; as the butterfly squeezes its body out of the tiny hole, it secretes fluids within its swollen body. This fluid goes to its wings, strengthening them; once they’ve emerged, as the fluid dries, the delicate creatures are able to take flight. Making the hole bigger to “help” the butterfly and ease its struggle will only debilitate it. Without the struggle, its wings would never gain strength. It would never fly.

When I go musing all alone Thinking of divers things fore-known. When I build castles in the air, Void of sorrow and void of fear, Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet, Methinks the time runs very fleet. All my joys to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy. When I lie waking all alone, Recounting what I have ill done, My thoughts on me then tyrannise, Fear and sorrow me surprise, Whether I tarry still or go, Methinks the time moves very slow. All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so mad as melancholy. When to myself I act and smile, With pleasing thoughts the time beguile, By a brook side or wood so green, Unheard, unsought for, or unseen, A thousand pleasures do me bless, And crown my soul with happiness. All my joys besides are folly, None so sweet as melancholy. When I lie, sit, or walk alone, I sigh, I grieve, making great moan, In a dark grove, or irksome den, With discontents and Furies then, A thousand miseries at once Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce, All my griefs to this are jolly, None so sour as melancholy. Methinks I hear, methinks I see, Sweet music, wondrous melody, Towns, palaces, and cities fine; Here now, then there; the world is mine, Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine, Whate'er is lovely or divine. All other joys to this are folly, None so sweet as melancholy. Methinks I hear, methinks I see Ghosts, goblins, fiends; my phantasy Presents a thousand ugly shapes, Headless bears, black men, and apes, Doleful outcries, and fearful sights, My sad and dismal soul affrights. All my griefs to this are jolly, None so damn'd as melancholy. Methinks I court, methinks I kiss, Methinks I now embrace my mistress. O blessed days, O sweet content, In Paradise my time is spent. Such thoughts may still my fancy move, So may I ever be in love. All my joys to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy. When I recount love's many frights, My sighs and tears, my waking nights, My jealous fits; O mine hard fate I now repent, but 'tis too late. No torment is so bad as love, So bitter to my soul can prove. All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so harsh as melancholy. Friends and companions get you gone, 'Tis my desire to be alone; Ne'er well but when my thoughts and I Do domineer in privacy. No Gem, no treasure like to this, 'Tis my delight, my crown, my bliss. All my joys to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy. 'Tis my sole plague to be alone, I am a beast, a monster grown, I will no light nor company, I find it now my misery. The scene is turn'd, my joys are gone, Fear, discontent, and sorrows come. All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so fierce as melancholy. I'll not change life with any king, I ravisht am: can the world bring More joy, than still to laugh and smile, In pleasant toys time to beguile? Do not, O do not trouble me, So sweet content I feel and see. All my joys to this are folly, None so divine as melancholy. I'll change my state with any wretch, Thou canst from gaol or dunghill fetch; My pain's past cure, another hell, I may not in this torment dwell! Now desperate I hate my life, Lend me a halter or a knife; All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so damn'd as melancholy.

But they were beautiful. When they died, rippling in rainbow colors, their many-hued messages unseen, unheard by their fleeing herdmates, the beauty of their death agony was beyond words. We sold their photoreceptive skins to Web corporations, their flesh to worlds like Heaven’s Gate, and ground their bones to powder to sell as aphrodisiacs to the impotent and superstitious on a score of other colony worlds. On

Now I knew what it was, and knew even more: that man is indispensable for the completion of creation; that, in fact, he himself is the second creator of the world, who alone has given to the world its objective existence – without which, unheard, unseen, silently eating, giving birth, dying, heads nodding through hundreds of millions of years, it would have gone on in the profoundest night of non-being down to its unknown end. Human consciousness created objective existence and meaning, and man found his indispensable place in the great process of being.

For all these years I kept my mouth closed so selfish desires would not fall out. And because I remained quiet for so long now my daughter does not hear me. She sits by her fancy swimming pool and hears only her Sony Walkman, her cordless phone, her big, important husband asking her why they have charcoal and no lighter fluid. All these years I kept my true nature hidden, running along like a small shadow so nobody could catch me. And because I moved so secretly now my daughter does not see me. She sees a list of things to buy, her checkbook out of balance, her ashtray sitting crooked on a straight table. And I want to tell her this: We are lost, she and I, unseen and not seeing, unheard and not hearing, unknown by others.

…There is some firm place in me which knows that what happened to Wally, whatever it was, whatever it is that death is as it transliterates us, moving us out of this life into what we can’t know, is kind. I shock myself, writing that. I know that many deaths are anything but gentle. I know people suffer terribly…I know many die abandoned, unseen, their stories unheard, their dignity violated, their human worth ignored. I suspect that the ease of Wally’s death, the rightness of it, the loving recognition which surrounded him, all made it possible for me to see clearly, to witness what other circumstances might obscure. I know, as surely as I know anything, that he’s all right now. And yet. And yet he’s gone, an absence so forceful it is itself a daily hourly presence. My experience of being with Wally… brought me to another sort of perception, but I can’t stay in that place, can’t sustain that way of seeing. The experience of knowing, somehow, that he’s all right, lifted in some kind process that turns at the heart of the world, gives way, as it must, to the plain aching fact that he’s gone. And doubt. And the fact that we can’t understand, that it’s our condition to not know. Is that our work in the world, to learn to dwell in such not-knowing? We need our doubt so as to not settle for easy answers. Not-knowing pushes us to struggle after meaning for ourselves…Doubt’s lesson seems to be that whatever we conclude must be provisional, open to revision, subject to correction by forces of change. Leave room, doubt says, for the unknowable, for what it will never quite be your share to see. Stanley Kunitz says somewhere that if poetry teaches us anything, it is that we can believe two completely contradictory things at once. And so I can believe that death is utter, unbearable rupture, just as I know that death is kind.

Ram laughed softly. ‘You know, Guru Vashishta had said to me, when I was a child, that compassion is sometimes an overrated virtue. He told me the story of the butterfly emerging from the hard pupa. Its life begins as an “ugly” caterpillar. When the time is right, it forms a pupa and retreats behind its hard walls. Within its shell, it transforms into a butterfly, unseen, unheard. When ready, it uses its tiny, sharp claws at the base of its forewings to crack a small opening in the hard, protective outer shell. It squeezes through this tiny opening and struggles to make its way out. This is a difficult, painful and prolonged process. Misguided compassion may make us want to enlarge the hole in the pupa, imagining that it would ease the butterfly’s task. But that struggle is necessary; as the butterfly squeezes its body out of the tiny hole, it secretes fluids within its swollen body. This fluid goes to its wings, strengthening them; once they’ve emerged, as the fluid dries, the delicate creatures are able to take flight. Making the hole bigger to “help” the butterfly and ease its struggle will only debilitate it. Without the struggle, its wings would never gain strength. It would never fly.

No teacher of RE ever said to me: “Beyond the limited realm of the senses, the shallow pool of the known, is a great untamable ocean, and we don’t have a fucking clue what goes on in there.” What we receive through sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch is all we know. We have tools that can enhance that information, we have theories for things that we suspect lie beyond that information, filtered through an apparatus limited once more to those senses. Those senses are limited; the light range we detect is within a narrow spectrum, between infrared light and ultraviolet light; other species see light that we can’t see. In the auditory realm, we hear but a fraction of the sound vibrations; we don’t hear high-pitched frequencies, like dog whistles, and we don’t hear low frequencies like whale song. The world is awash with colors unseen and abuzz with unheard frequencies. Undetected and disregarded. The wise have always known that these inaccessible realms, these dimensions that cannot be breached by our beautifully blunt senses, hold the very codes to our existence, the invisible, electromagnetic foundations upon which our gross reality clumsily rests. Expressible only through symbol and story, as it can never be known by the innocent mind. The stories are formulas, poems, tools for reflection through which we may access the realm behind the thinking mind, the consciousness beyond knowing and known, the awareness that is not connected to the haphazard data of biography. The awareness that is not prickled and tugged by capricious emotion. The awareness that is aware that it is aware. In meditation I access it; in yoga I feel it; on drugs it hit me like a hammer—at sixteen, staring into a bathroom mirror on LSD, contrary to instruction (“Don’t look in the mirror, Russ, it’ll fuck your head up.” Mental note: “Look in mirror.”). I saw that my face wasn’t my face at all but a face that I lived behind and was welded to by a billion nerves. I looked into my eyes and saw that there was something looking back at me that was not me, not what I’d taken to be me. The unrefined ocean beyond the shallow pool was cascading through the mirror back at me. Nature looking at nature.

I will fight the uncircumcised Philistine.” A moment of shock hit Saul, and then he burst out in laughter. The unseen and unheard spirit beside Saul cackled with laughter as well. Their voices became one in unison. For a moment, David felt certain he had heard another voice in the tent. He felt the presence, but could not place it. “You are not able to fight this Philistine.” Saul could not stop his chuckling. “You are but a youth. He has been a man of war from his youth.” David said, “As a shepherd for my father, I have killed lumbering bears like him while protecting the flock. Not long ago, a lion took a lamb from my care. I caught him by his mane and struck him down.” David decided not to admit his terrible aim with the slingshot. He had killed the lion after all. That was what mattered. Saul could not stop laughing. David persisted. “Yahweh delivered me from the paw of the bear and the lion. He will deliver me from the hand of this overgrown brute, this uncircumcised Philistine.

You know, Guru Vashishta had said to me, when I was a child, that compassion is sometimes an overrated virtue. He told me the story of the butterfly emerging from the hard pupa. Its life begins as an “ugly” caterpillar. When the time is right, it forms a pupa and retreats behind its hard walls. Within its shell, it transforms into a butterfly, unseen, unheard. When ready, it uses its tiny, sharp claws at the base of its forewings to crack a small opening in the hard, protective outer shell. It squeezes through this tiny opening and struggles to make its way out. This is a difficult, painful and prolonged process. Misguided compassion may make us want to enlarge the hole in the pupa, imagining that it would ease the butterfly’s task. But that struggle is necessary; as the butterfly squeezes its body out of the tiny hole, it secretes fluids within its swollen body. This fluid goes to its wings, strengthening them; once they’ve emerged, as the fluid dries, the delicate creatures are able to take flight. Making the hole bigger to “help” the butterfly and ease its struggle will only debilitate it. Without the struggle, its wings would never gain strength. It would never fly.

Owls are nocturnal, swooping down silently, with the soft edges of their feathers muffling the sound of the wings, before pouncing and swallowing their prey whole. Death unseen, death unheard, death from above—the military drones of the animal kingdom

In the still air the music lies unheard; In the rough marble beauty hides unseen; To make the music and the beauty needs The master’s touch, the sculptor’s chisel keen. Great Master, touch us with Your skillful hands; Let not the music that is in us die! Great Sculptor, hew and polish us; nor let, Hidden and lost, Your form within us lie!

The unheard to hear—the unseen to see—the more to be understood: transparency. A purposeful guiding to a place of progression where ends come together and a bridge exists for the seeking to cross over onto a road of new and lasting hope.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why employee engagement is down in so many organizations these days. It’s because people feel isolated, disconnected, unseen, and unheard.

Even in the end, hope is stubborn. A cry in the dark. A scream in the void. Unheard, unseen, unnoticed, but there. Always there.

It is easy to believe something which is not experienced than to believe something being witnessed and experienced. For it is easy for us to believe anything and everything which is unheard, unseen & unexperienced.

The role of a writer is to shed light on major issues, to speak the unspoken, and make others see the unseen, feel the unfelt, and hear the unheard.

They were hunting dogs, the student continued, who ran in packs behind a falcon or hawk, the bird guiding them towards their prey. In each pack there were two principal dogs whose role it was to watch the hawk as they ran. The complexity and speed of this proceed, he said, could not be overestimated: the pack flowed silently over the landscape, light and inexorable as death itself, encroaching unseen and unheard on its target. To follow the subtlety of the hawk’s signals overhead while running at speed was a demanding and exhausting feat: the two principal dogs worked in concert, the one taking over while the other rested its concentration and then back again. This idea, of the two dogs sharing the work of reading the hawk, was one he found appealing. It suggested that ultimate fulfilment of a conscious being lay not in solitude but in a shared state so intricate and cooperative it might almost be said to represent the entwining of two selves. This notion, of the unitary self being broken down, of consciousness not as an imprisonment in one’s perceptions but rather as something more intimate and less divided, a universality that could come from shared experience at the highest level - well, like the German training before him, he was both seduced by the idea and willing to do the hard work in executing it.

In a society that places a disproportionate emphasis on productivity, there is a true and real fear of slowing down. Will we be replaced? Left behind? Disrespected by the masses, whispered about in cubicles? Will we be cast aside for not pulling our weight, for not keeping up with the pace, for not playing by the rules? For exiting too slow on the 405? Perhaps. Perhaps we will be chastised, misunderstood. We might appear incompetent or lazy. We might be labeled meek. Poor, lowly, plain. But perhaps we will not. Perhaps the meek are the blessed. Perhaps cubicles are the true sanctuary, crouched down right there between the power cords and pencil cups. Not the corner office or the mahogany desk, not the pulpit or the stage. With or without the tie clip. Not the front and center but the sidelines and the back rooms—the unseen, the unheard, the quiet hands that have already learned what the rest of us seek to know. That there are blessings—peace, abundance, humility—in racing toward a different finish line. That there is a difference between being left behind and placing others first. That meek is not spiritless.

Convincing has one goal in mind: being right. And here’s the unfortunate consequence of being right: the other person feels unseen and unheard, at which point most people become infuriated and combative, because it feels as if the other person does not accept your realness or worth. Feeling unseen and unheard makes connection impossible.

We are each of us antennae, tuned to the deep. And deep calls to deep, over and under us, around us . . . through us. Jack Spicer proclaimed the poem no more for the poet than the song is for the radio. Sun Ra told us there are other worlds that wish to speak to us. Signals are everywhere, piercing our bodies—unheard broadcasts, coded transmissions, via a million unseen wavelengths—T waves, radio, the breath of distant stars. The breath of things behind the stars.

And again, U.S. Senator William Jenner in 1954 said: “Today the path of total dictatorship in the United States can be laid by strictly legal means, unseen and unheard by the Congress, the President, or the people. Outwardly we have a constitutional government. We have operating within our government and political system, another body representing another form of government – bureaucratic elite.

There are things better unheard , unsaid , unseen.

Because words are just air, Kanai-babu,' Moyna said. When the wind blows on the water, you see ripples and waves, but the real river lies beneath, unseen and unheard. You can't blow on the water's surface from below, Kanai-babu. Only someone who’s outside can do that, someone like you.

To be unloved, unseen, unheard is to remain unfelt for many are struggling in the thick of darkness. Just be love for it may be someone's answered prayers, somebody's lost light....

I had rarely before paid much attention to the natural world. But my exposure to traditional magicians and seers was shifting my senses; I became increasingly susceptible to the solicitations of nonhuman things. In the course of struggling to decipher the magicians’ odd gestures or to fathom their constant spoken references to powers unseen and unheard, I began to see and to hear in a manner I never had before.

The wide-eyed professor lectured, on the verge of tears, and when class ended, the students closed their notebooks shut and asked of her plans for the weekend, which was answered politely, but with a tinge of sadness, for the professor feared her personhood, which had in her lesson plan existed truly only minutes ago, was already being reduced to the small, meaningless matters of tomorrow.

The majority of us feel unseen, unheard, and unloved and we carry this pain with us throughout our lives.

Poetry is like shards of meteorites falling on barren land – the shining of the secret stone unseen; the song of the vibration unheard; the fire in the ancient stone, forever burning alone. The old mother of all is sitting under her favourite ash tree. She touches the shedding bark with her knobbly fingers and traces the wounds of unresolved shadows in strange circular patterns. She sees her children cry, their tears strange silver knobs that read like braille.

Those we love don’t go away; they walk beside us every day. Unheard, unseen, but always near, still loved, still missed, and very dear. ~ an Irish poem, unknown author

When a person feels unseen or unheard for a long time, it’s inevitable that the one who finally helps them feel known becomes important. It is the truest act of intimacy to help someone feel fully known and fully loved.

Some days, the anger makes you feel ugly and undeserving of love and deserving of all that comes to you. You know the image is false, but it’s all you can see of yourself, this ugliness, and so you hide your whole self away because you haven’t worked out how to emerge from your own anger, how to dip into your own peace. You hide your whole self away because sometimes you forget you haven’t done anything wrong. Sometimes you forget there’s nothing in your pockets. Sometimes you forget that to be you is to be unseen and unheard, or it is to be seen and heard in ways you did not ask for. Sometimes you forget to be you is to be a Black body, and not much else.

Within a decade, evidence to support Dudley’s work began flowing in. In 2017 a researcher in Argentina found that sunflower farmers could get up to 47 percent more oil yield from their plants if they grew them in rows with kin closely packed next to one another. They grew the flowers at densities unheard of in sunflower farming, but instead of attacking each other underground, as closely grown sunflowers were assumed to always do, they did the opposite: aboveground, the sunflowers tilted their stalks at alternating angles to avoid shading their kin-neighbors. There was no sign that they were robbing each other of nutrients, either. If they were allowed to grow at odd angles, rather than be forced to stand straight up, each flower received more light, and oil production skyrocketed.

I’ve come to understand that in this world, there are those who, in their untouchable privilege, believe that they’re entitled to a perfect life, and the perfect life they get is because they’re so deserving, so good, and true. Their crippled souls are blinded by a naivety that can only understand their life, their pain, their truth. These are the ones who look at us—the mermaids, the fairies, the unicorns—and see only that we don’t fit into their little box of what beauty and truth are. They make token gestures of kindness that are not about what we need, but about what they need to look good in their own eyes, and in the eyes of the world they have moulded to their shallow, selfish limits, leaving us—the magical, the different, the dreamers—feeling less than them; feeling unheard, unseen, and unloved.

Two souls, though hand in hand, unseen and unheard, Just silent echoes, not even a whispered word. Is it better to fade in the shadows' embrace, Than face love's neglect in a sunlit space?

Be tender if you can.....for there is a world beyond what you see where the invisible walks with words silenced only to find another hand in the dark. Tell their stories if you can ...for the world needs to hear the stories of unseen and unheard.

I love you, in ways inconceivable. I love you, in ways unheard of. I love you, in ways unseen. I love you, in measures undetermined.

Most eras before our own knew that solitude didn’t have to be a sign of wretchedness or deficiency. There were ways of being on one’s own that could be filled with honour and an impression of communion with what is noble and sincere; physical isolation could be accompanied by a strong sense of connection with a god, a person in a book, a piece of music or a quieter part of one’s own mind. One could be alone and at the same time not feel isolated or damned — just as one might be surrounded by family and yet feel painfully unseen and unheard.

Child of God, your greatest protection in all your trials is a Man. Not Moses, but Jesus. Not in the servant, but in the Master. He is praying for you. Just as Moses did for the people of Israel, Jesus is interceding for you, unseen and unheard by you. If you could see him in the dim distance, and catch the words of his voice, and see his heart as it speaks for you, you would take comfort. God hears that Man when he prays! He can overcome every difficulty. He does not divide the Red Sea with a rod, but a cross. He uses a pillar of cloud of forgiving grace to blind the eyes of your enemy and keep them at a distance.

No. You’re wrong. It was something. It was a great thing. Our greatest moments are often unseen and unheard, but they are never unfelt. My mother told me that, once. I felt everything you did.

Mary Keane watched her daughter and felt as well the punch and turn of the baby not yet born and saw the similarity of the mystery of them both—the baby unseen, moving an elbow or a foot, the means to an end all its own, unfathomable; her daughter with the unseen life playing like reflected light over her face, her lips moving in a conversation forever unheard.

Signor Tombola had endeavoured to persuade us, by arguments which we took no trouble to oppose, that the unity of his country in no way resembled the average modern torpedo, carefully planned, constructed with all the skill of the greatest European arsenals, but, when constructed, destined to be directed by feeble hands into a region where it must undoubtedly explode, unseen, unfeared, and unheard, into the illimitable wastes of political chaos.

Remember when I said this story was about death? I suppose it's about life too. All the tiny moments throughout each day that remind us we're alive, that we have breath, that we have worth. Taking a leap of faith. Learning something new. Stepping outside our comfort zones. Lifting our palms from the handlebars and stretching them to the sky. The little things that show us we're meant to be here, taking up this tiny bit of space on earth. Our life has meaning. We have meaning. And we can see proof of it every day, if we choose to look. All these years I've turned away from it, ignoring it, letting the shadow of doubt consume me like dark clouds. I truly believed I was The Worst. That the world would be better off without me because of all the mistakes I've made. But now I'm learning to keep my eyes wide open, to see the crocuses in the snow, the tiny slivers of light that glint through the storm. To count my blessings, gather them up in my arms and never let go. I won't let anyone take them from me, not without a fight. Because the most beautiful things in life are unseen, unheard, They must be lived, felt, like the soul on fire. And mine, I swear, it blazes within me.

Unseen, unheard, but always near. Still loved, still missed, and very dear.

Those we love don't go away; they walk beside us every day," a deep voice says, startling me. It's the man with the scarf, but I can't tell if he's speaking to me or to the grave. His voice is resonant, and his accent sounds British. “Unseen, unheard, but always near. Still loved, still missed, and very dear.

Why is it, do you think, the people accept that some things can be unseen or unheard by most, yet be valid and real, yet other things unseen or unheard are judged to be figments of imagination or signs of an unstable mind?

It took the mountain top, it seems to me now, to give me the sensation of independence. It was as if I'd discovered something I'd never tasted before in my short life. Or rediscovered it - for I associated it with the taste of water that came out of the well, accompanied with the ring of that long metal sleeve against the sides of the living mountain, as from deep down it was wound up to view brimming and streaming long drops behind it like bright stars on a ribbon. It thrilled me to drink from the common dipper. The coldness, the far, unseen, unheard springs of what was in my mouth now, the iron smell, all said mountain mountain mountain as I swallowed. Every swallow was making me a part of being here, sealing me in place, with my bare feet planted on the mountain and sprinkled with my rapturous spills. What I felt I'd come here to do was something on my own.

A century ago Rudyard Kipling penned a piece of verse in salute to what he called ‘The Trade’, which was plied by submariners playing what he described as ‘grisly blindfold games’. The grim potential of submarines had been displayed during the First World War, with their commanders using periscopes to seek out targets and delivering Kipling’s ‘one-eyed Death’. ‘The Trade’ concludes: Unheard they work, unseen they win. That is the custom of ‘The Trade’.

Ada was born in 1971 to a woman whom David had hired as a surrogate. At the time this was nearly unheard-of,

Our greatest moments are often unseen and unheard, but they are never unfelt.

Those we love don’t go away. They walk beside us every day. Unseen, unheard, but always near. Still loved, still missed, and very dear. “There’s no greater misfortune than losing a child, and no greater sorrow.

The responsibility for finding and fixing problems should be assigned to every employee, from the most senior manager to the lowliest person on the production line. If anyone at any level spotted a problem in the manufacturing process, Deming believed, they should be encouraged (and expected) to stop the assembly line. Japanese companies that implemented Deming’s ideas made it easy for workers to do so: They installed a cord that anyone could pull in order to bring production to a halt. Before long, Japanese companies were enjoying unheard-of levels of quality, productivity, and market share.

the story of the butterfly emerging from the hard pupa. Its life begins as an “ugly” caterpillar. When the time is right, it forms a pupa and retreats behind its hard walls. Within its shell, it transforms into a butterfly, unseen, unheard. When ready, it uses its tiny, sharp claws at the base of its forewings to crack a small opening in the hard, protective outer shell. It squeezes through this tiny opening and struggles to make its way out. This is a difficult, painful and prolonged process. Misguided compassion may make us want to enlarge the hole in the pupa, imagining that it would ease the butterfly’s task. But that struggle is necessary; as the butterfly squeezes its body out of the tiny hole, it secretes fluids within its swollen body. This fluid goes to its wings, strengthening them; once they’ve emerged, as the fluid dries, the delicate creatures are able to take flight. Making the hole bigger to “help” the butterfly and ease its struggle will only debilitate it. Without the struggle, its wings would never gain strength. It would never fly.

Open our hearts, God. To instruction, unheard. To possibility, unseen. To love, unfelt. To joy, unknown. If we have been closed off, we repent. And we ask you to open our hearts. Amen.

There's something tragic about her expression that we see again and again here. There's a presumption of shallowness that all parties have participated in, including us as the reader - we have not looked into her inner thoughts and feelings but have taken as true that she is simply shallow and uninteresting. The depth of her expression suggests to them and to us that we did not give due credence to her humanity. We never got to hear what she may have had to say as the reader, just as the characters never listened. And now she's dead, alone, unseen and unheard. W&P - Book 4 Chapter 9 - Lise's Death

When one lies in a hole peering intently into die black, listening, smelling, hearing only the sound of one’s breathing, waiting, expecting, the stillness may become appalling, dead objects may rise slowly and live, the motionless may move, sounds of leaves stirred by the breeze may become the sneaking movements of human feet, a friend may be an enemy, an enemy a friend, until, unless controlled by toughness of mind, one’s imagination may become haunted by the unseen and the unheard.

Feeling invisible—unheard, unseen, unrecognized—made the children more fiercely insist on drawing attention to themselves. But, of course, their efforts were often wildly inappropriate, ensuring that nobody could possibly pretend not to see them.

What do we learn from the children’s refusal to be unseen and unheard? Centrally, and simply, the children are saying, We are here. They want to speak, not just listen. They want to play, not just work. They want to perform, not just sit in the audience. They want to stand out, not fit in. They want to be teachers, not just learners. They want to be known and seen as children, not just students. They are reminding teachers to teach people, not content.