The words of the courtiers fill the room until the king asks for silence, and one by one the crowd files out. Only then can the secret thing be delivered. The same holds inside a person. The mind runs its endless commentary, and nothing of depth can reach us while the noise keeps up.
When the inner talking finally stops, a doorway opens that the stream of thought had kept shut. What arrives in that quiet was always waiting to be handed over. The king emptied the room to hear it. A crowded mind cannot receive what stillness carries straight to the center of us.