I sit here looking out, filled with an emptiness that spills over and keeps on spilling. There is no end to this boundlessness, this delicious thrill of Presence.
Nothing can contain it, for everything is contained within it. The good and the bad, the black and the white, the harsh and the gentle—all simply flavors of Its passage.
Here, here, always here. So simple, so immediate. This is always here. Call it whatever you will. In truth, This has no name.
Too exquisite to speak of, too delicate to touch, delicious, tender, yet so very solid, vast, fathomless.
All that exists comes out of This. All that exists returns to This.
No-one owns This, yet everyone belongs to This.