Sometimes, I leave too much unwritten but then, there are those times I “run aground” a metaphor. My writing lies somewhere between poetry and prose, falling short of either. Yet, it reflects the way I live now, a place in between.
Yesterday’s post mentions an acceptance of nothingness, as if there were no fear attached. In a society that values objects, possessions, the security of identity–more than 10,000 things–nothingness is its own terror.
I’m not a stranger to that terror for most of my life nothingness was my greatest fear, if I had known the concept. Some would argue that I do not have “enough things” to appreciate nothingness. They would not be wrong, which is not to say they are right.
Aging may be an advantage in assuming a larger perspective on things and no things. I know chronic illness is. After 40 years, I get impermanence–it is insurance against stasis–it is rarely comforting, almost always challenging, but it offers options.
Opportunity, however, is not without loss. It took me years to accept that. Sometimes, opportunity knocked elsewhere before coming back round to me. Ultimately, I had to let go of what I could not live without. Yet, here I am.
Whether reading or writing, I have always loved words. They give me solace, like the nameless Tao and the 10,000 things it manifests. For me, nothingness is the nameless of which I catch a glimpse from time to time. Sometimes, with one of my 10,000 words, I bravely name it poetry.