I want to write. I want to write about things that I understand. I want to write about things that I aspire to understand. I want to write about everything. I want to write about nothing. I want to write about me; and more importantly, about you. I want to write with nothing in mind. I want to write for a lifetime. For a lifetime of significance perished into the nothingness of existence.
It cannot be trivial. It never were. All of this friction, this blockage and this perplexity, swept away as a leaf makes its destined flip, leaving behind scrapes of triviality for a race to dwell upon. Bending, breaking and munching on it. Believing that this is it. That this is the essence of what is, and a delusion of what shall become.
This is the nothingness that you have come to delve into. Those are the things that make you. That make you process, value and believe. Believe in things that may or may not be real. You are a manifestation of all those things; all those things you do not know, and all the things you believe you know. But yes, this striking fragility of a breath is nothing but a mere illusion.
I know you do not quite comprehend what you, yourself are trying to believe. I know you cannot possibly grasp it all. I know you incapability is overwhelming. I know it's a blessing that you are too blind to see.
Your reality is a manifestation of letters. Letters that collide at a stream of intersections, illuminating, imploding into themselves, striving for a momentary state for stillness. Stillness that ambushes its observers, bringing them closer in existence. An existence of transparency. Of brightness and color.
An existence of nothingness.
Of nature, you are devoid. Of a brick, you decompose. Of a thread, you let loose. Of a self, you are unaware. Of stillness and calamity you wish. But you are staying here. You are staying here in this moment; in this continuum that offers you nothing but abrupt whirls onto a speck of its expansive fields.
You know this is nothing. Or so you hope.
It cannot be trivial. It never were. All of this friction, this blockage and this perplexity, swept away as a leaf makes its destined flip, leaving behind scrapes of triviality for a race to dwell upon. Bending, breaking and munching on it. Believing that this is it. That this is the essence of what is, and a delusion of what shall become.
This is the nothingness that you have come to delve into. Those are the things that make you. That make you process, value and believe. Believe in things that may or may not be real. You are a manifestation of all those things; all those things you do not know, and all the things you believe you know. But yes, this striking fragility of a breath is nothing but a mere illusion.
I know you do not quite comprehend what you, yourself are trying to believe. I know you cannot possibly grasp it all. I know you incapability is overwhelming. I know it's a blessing that you are too blind to see.
Your reality is a manifestation of letters. Letters that collide at a stream of intersections, illuminating, imploding into themselves, striving for a momentary state for stillness. Stillness that ambushes its observers, bringing them closer in existence. An existence of transparency. Of brightness and color.
An existence of nothingness.
Of nature, you are devoid. Of a brick, you decompose. Of a thread, you let loose. Of a self, you are unaware. Of stillness and calamity you wish. But you are staying here. You are staying here in this moment; in this continuum that offers you nothing but abrupt whirls onto a speck of its expansive fields.
You know this is nothing. Or so you hope.
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