I’m on the edge of existence, looking out at nothing, the substantial, rich, eclectic nothing of which all reality is woven. It lacks form, but it’s filled with thoughts and possibilities, this place where the mind of God roams free, unencumbered by the parameters of our restricted world. It is from it that time itself springs forth, fluidly looped back into its spirited emptiness and endlessly renewed, until all eternity has come to pass, and then some more.
I don’t know how to feel about looking out into eternity from the flimsy shell of my body, worried about my lesser, material state, barely held together by impulses and energy, worried that it won’t be able to contain me in the vastness out there, in this thought filled original void without beginning or end.
In defiance of the silent limitations of my world, I stretch out my hands to touch the nothing, and it doesn’t yield under my fingers. Smudges of my self get trapped in its essence, altering its meaning with the fine silver dusting of my soul.
There are worlds, and lives, and universes in those silver smudges that my fingers leave behind in the endlessness of being, worlds far beyond the existence we perceive, far beyond my understanding.
Nothing leaves smudges on my outstretched hands too, magical invisible inkblots, as if the fountain pen of creation leaked infinity on my fingers.
And yet, I am nothing, a wrinkle on the surface of being, while eternity itself lends its substance to the tips of my fingers.
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