Space

There is a vegetative nothingness here, silent, non thinking, non verbal. There is no need to think, no need to do, just this, whatever it is.

Now and then little ripples of "should" arise, "Shouldn't I this," or "Shouldn't I that." But there is no drive behind them -- dregs at the bottom of an empty barrel.

You can tap on the sides and hear the echo of emptiness. The vacuum resounds, and one can say nothing other than "So?"

It is all taken care of, whatever it is. Only what arises to be done will be done. Where that which is to be done arises from is unknown.

How does emptiness communicate? Seekers must go elsewhere to find barrels full -- full of words, full of wisdom, full of something to quench their thirst. It is not to be found here.

Less is more. The lesser grows, and more is more and more disinclined. Peace, restless, knowing nothing about its place in this busy world.

No place for labels to stick, to have their say and take hold. No place for all the doing that labeling wants to push along. No hold in this vacuum to grab.

Space is what is. Space, unending, in which all this passes. Space in which even these words are essentially meaningless. For words are parts, division, and an effort at pointing at what is undivided, whole, and timeless.