What can be said when silence devours each word?
What can be taught when an infinite unknown surrounds each moment?
What can be added to this moment of silence?
What can I prefer, when every thing is nothing but a horizon?
Emptiness pouring itself into nothing.
Light merging with darkness.
Darkness hiding behind the splendor.
Nothing is, nothing will be, and nothing ever was.
All witnessing is just the intersection of gentle, soft strings.
It’s just the interplay of word over vibration, creating the illusion of continuity; creating the sensation of tapestry and feel.
And in the intersection of light and dark, there by the Road’s End, the weaver weaves.
The hands create tales and sights untold: untruth, meaningless, fathomless, groundless.
And there by the Road’s End, where the ways intersect, you can almost hear the weird sound of the ticking and tapping of the Kindly Ladies; making, weaving your life; ending your life and all.
For all that begins, one day comes to an end.
There by the Road’s End in the intersection of paths.
