The hollowness of words

 

Each word is incomplete, just an abstract, broken fragment born of thoughts arising in the mind. And the mind itself is a grainy fragment of the overall consciousness. Words are mere grains of sand. With sand grains we try to make castles, huge castles that we make in pursuance of the ever-missing meaning of life. Sand slips, we go for awkward flips. Words are mere broken arrows. How will one even win a battle with broken arrows? Words are mere sparks, temporary flashes coming out of the endless coffers of silence. They just give a little flash of light around our feet as we grope in the darkness seeking a way out of our puzzles. Words are mere temporary twinklings on the vast canvas of silence. They themselves tell their story of incompleteness, their own meaninglessness behind all the meanings ascribed to them. And the moment we listen to their story, we arrive at the moral of the final story. The moral of their story is silence: silence and emptiness behind all this noise and happening. And as I write this, huge rumblings of megh naad, the rumblings of clouds, buzz across my head. A booming cosmic storm that chucks out the outer shell of words, crushes the stones to spread the sand to go flying with the winds. The words getting sucked into a cosmic cascade and whirlpool of energy. And beyond that silence there is a void full of potential for all the noise.