Silence Has No Syllabus

A Taoist Riff on Verbose Chatterboxes

There’s a certain kind of person that makes me wince, not because they are cruel, not because they are ignorant, but because they talk too damn much.

Not in volume, but in volume. They wind their way around a point like a vine seeking a tree that’s no longer there. Each word a leaf, each sentence a detour, until the listener, wearied and wilted, forgets the original question entirely.

Circumlocution, they call it.

The art of saying everything and nothing at once.

A performance of sound without substance.

A symphony of syllables in search of a single point.

And I, a wanderer of the Way, a student of the unspoken, no longer have patience for it. Because when the Tao flows, it flows clear. Like spring water, not syrup. Like wind, not smog.

Lao Tzu said:

“Those who know do not speak. Those who speak do not know.”

But I’d amend that slightly:

“Those who know may speak, but they do so briefly, and then return to stillness.”

For the Tao does not explain itself in paragraphs.

The moon does not justify its glow.

The river does not annotate its course.

Why, then, do so many feel compelled to speak as if they were paid by the preposition?

I’ve sat through meetings, gatherings, and conversations where language became a labyrinth. Words piled upon words like bricks in a wall, not to build connection, but to obscure meaning.

Often, those who say the least have lived the most. And those who say the most? Usually hiding behind a veil of verbiage, terrified that clarity might reveal the truth of their emptiness.

In Taoist thought, simplicity is strength.

Not minimalism for its own sake, but a return to essence.

Simplicity is not silence, but the right sound at the right time.

When someone bloviates—ah, how I love that word, a windbag’s own windmill—I practice my internal wu wei. I do not resist. I do not engage. I let the words pass over me like a monsoon that will eventually end. If I must respond, I do so with a single sentence. Maybe even just a glance.

Sometimes, a nod is the most powerful rebuttal.

When in doubt, I consult the Tao Te Ching. Chapter 15 speaks of the ancient masters:

“They were careful, as someone crossing an iced-over stream.

Alert, like a warrior in enemy territory.

Courteous, like a guest.

Fluid, like melting ice.

Shapeable, like a block of wood.

Receptive, like a valley.

Clear, like a glass of water.”

Notice what’s not there? Not a word about wordiness.

The Tao favors clarity. Brevity. Insight wrapped in stillness.

So when faced with a serial circumlocutor, I invoke the way of water:

I flow around them.

I do not dam their deluge with more words.

I let them talk themselves in circles, until they collapse in their own puddle of pomp.

Let them decorate their vagueness with adjectives.

Let them shine their uncertainty with metaphors.

Meanwhile, I sip tea and wait for their echo to fade.

Because in the end, truth is always quiet.

Like dawn. Like breath. Like the Tao.

So if you catch me staring into space as someone explains the obvious in twelve contradictory ways, don’t worry. I’m not rude. I’m reverent.

I’m worshipping at the altar of less.

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