Who has space for Emptiness? Who has time for Eternity? Who among the lonely has room for Solitude? Whatever it is that drives us out of the traffic jam behind our forehead invites us into nothing but Light.

The Universe is pure fontanelle. The lid was never really on.

Awareness makes an appearance, showing up in something novel, dressed for the occasion. Infinite appearances.

Gravity and Light come together, birthing all, consuming all, being all. To the Consciousness that is the subjective dimension of Light, Gravity is but Primal attraction, Love in the absolute raw, effortlessly outdancing Time.

As Emptiness -- the Mahashunyata, or primordial Reality, of Buddhism -- is made into a “nondualistic” goal and metaphysical conversation-stopper, Time lines us up, neatly sectioning our sky, leaving us as special nobodies. Spiritual ambition does not die easily. So easy to make not being special something special. Look around, look inside your looking, look without looking, letting the ashes of this and other Zenigmatic sentences dangle like smudged sighs somewhere high above your neocortical scurrying and worrying, slowly confettiing down upon the intruders stationed in your head.

How does it feel to be food for thought?

We keep trying to think our way out, reducing ourselves to lottery stubs in the Great Getaway’s spinning barrel. Thus does Truth get obscured by well-schooled facts. Amnesia sends Christmas cards to itself. Understanding chokes on its own tracks. Is Earth but a cosmic reform school? Vagrant phrases keep breaking in. Explanations only affirm the Mystery. And we raggedly limp around our quarantined pain in poisoned playgrounds, confusing numbness and detachment, faith and hope, vacuity and openness, anger and aggression, guilt and conscience, suffering and pain, wisdom and knowledge, madness and sanity.

Emptiness appears to recognize the gravity of the situation, trapping enough light to make something of Itself. All sorts of somethings, somewhens, somebodies, a few taking shape as astrophysicists dallying like voyeuristic sperm around the perimeter of Black Holes, staying just far enough away so as to not get sucked in, swallowed, consumed, emptied. Few are those men who can give themselves fully to a woman without castrating or eviscerating themselves. Virility and vulnerability reach for each other in broken rooms, trailing clouds of war. All the boys bleeding to death or locked away in their headquarters, while the sky burns like a screaming steak and the forests fall without a sound.

There are no winners in this overtime. Is designing umbrellas for acid rain really progress? Spiritual seekers with polyester smiles and orphaned shadows sit in the twilight, constipated with hope. Cynics wait for them to crash and burn. Others open the windows, letting the night rush in, blazing with light. Darkness shining wild.

The Storm is already here. The empires have fallen apart. Chaos is seeking annulment of its marriage to Order, claiming mental cruelty. World leaders’ memoirs are on sale, crayons sold separately. We sneer, but do not go to the heart of our fear, hiding out in our slumber and greed, ashamed of our real need.

Nevertheless, Silence never ceased. Nor did Love. Emptiness never ceased. The Wilderness of Being, the Wonder that cannot be imagined. Words come slowly now, like lead-dipped feathers, dissolving in formless yet overwhelmingly tangible Presence, this page now a sea of fast darkening white, this breath not mine, this gap between you and me but an entrancing fiction we read meaning into before it all shatters.

Only Emptiness has room for all, only Love can touch all, only Silence can express all.

Stretching for one more sentence, I watch my speechless words aflame in the Holy Wild, leaving no ashes, but only gratitude.