A discovery

A discovery.  If I have discovered anything, it is but another face of nothing.  This isn’t as bad as it might at first seem: nothing teaches us, in its many, its endless disguises, as much as or, paradoxically, more than any thing, with its back turned on nothing in quiet defiance, with its ignorance of where it came from and where, certainly, as certain as anything, as certain as nothing, it is heading.  Nothing is our sourcepoint and nothing is our destination.  Meanwhile, all things call out to us greedy for our love for them, with the dim thought in the background, as though all things think, that we cannot abide with them in the way they wish, not when we think in the way we do, with even a modicum of honesty.

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