This essay sits beside something I keep working on from the other direction. My own writing lives with people carrying anomalous experiences that modern western culture has given them no framework for, the silence of being unwitnessed. Your piece points at its mirror: the chosen silence of the genuinely initiated, the silence that protects rather than wounds. Both kinds are vanishing in different directions, and we're left with no language to hold what's real and no discipline to protect what's sacred.