January 13th, 2019

Beauty hides in the void — in that quiet gap between where consciousness ends and the infinite all-being of the universe begins — in that little space which our waking, even more so dreaming minds try to fill with those grasping tendrils of art and of philosophy and of love, where the silent self grows, hidden in patient stillness behind the shell of the sense-seen. It is the secret country where the soul retreats on cold days when we realise those we used to love have gone forever, and it is where the innermost thoughts of man sequester themselves to hide away from the corrupting sands of language and even, sometimes, the immolating light of presence — where there is only being, and our minds are girders to the world that sense denies. It is where our hearts long for on those dark nights when the smothering tentacles of our own latent absurdity choke out the peace that we have taken so long to slowly build and that all comes apart in one night of intoxicated contemplation and steamy, obscured doubt in the perception that we have constructed — when the darkness of unbeing creeps in against the flint-and-tindered sparks we have dashed against it.
It is the hidden light — by which we warm ourselves in the darkest hour.
It is the cold glow of truth — without sadness or mirth or the oppression of feeling.
It is; be.