Anything
can be written, thought, felt, analyzed and interpreted about an empty page.
Its emptiness is the limitless, infinite womb of creation. Its nonbeing is the
soul of the entire substance of being. The word is an echo of the wordless. The
noise is a mere chiming announcement on the timeless clock of silence,
intimating the eternal presence of silence. A buzzing, stirring, musical
rhapsody—the sound of the soundless.
The
manifestation is a mere indicator of the presence of the eternal, unknowable
void. All that is perceptible to our senses is merely a motley bunch of
thoughts, forms and shapes from the pool of a tangible wider wit, which itself
is a known ripple on the outer margin of the unknown, the latter itself just a
corner of the unknowable.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Kindly feel free to give your feedback on the posts.