The art of not knowing is one of the finest arts. A delicate, yet intense, inquiry of revealing mastery. It unravels and withdraws, it confuses and misunderstands, it comes near and winds itself around the ankles of the one who longs and resists it. The movement never stops. There’s a silent tempo, a rhythm unique to its sweetness. This is the place that no one has gone before and many have journeyed. There’s no end to this infinite depth. Being the ocean that contains it. Being the bottom of the ocean floor that sees the sunlight peaking through the crystal clear surface. How long can one hold their breath? This is the space that we long to come home to and are frightened to surrender to. The tune is being whispered and the listener must pause to hear. Must let the movement tumble over, the waves crashing, the tide coming in.
Sweet, sweet nothing. Sweet, sweet something. That too is carried by the wind.
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