Do you feel its tiny teeth slowly nibbling away at the foundation of your illusion, washing away the footings of a castle built on sand, lapping at your feet, calling you like a sirens song to your own inevitable demise?
Can you open yet, to that place where the monster lives, dark , deep and way inside you, and do you tremble at the letting go?
Standing before the gate, do you long to step through or do you long to stay, clinging to hope that an unseen hand will stop you, save you, redeem you.
Do you even give it any attention, that incessant nagging sense of doubt that’s tapping at the window of your inner world, or do you prefer to try and cover it, filling it. Filling it with things and thoughts, dramas and emotions, story and tales that you tell yourself are so important, necessary, essential to your needs?
Or better yet do you fill it with material bobbles, designer jeans, calf skin handbags, marriages, divorces, children, shoes, shares, wine, women, men, lovers, haters, footballers, anything, anything at all to distract you from that great yawning chasm that wants to consume your very being.
Stop, breathe, feel … feel some more … what does emptiness sound like, how does it taste, how does it smell, and where does it touch you?
Do you ever wonder how much of you lies beyond the boundary of your tiny unfulfilled world, your ego wrapped in designer shoes or beggars rags and how does one tell the difference.
Do you wonder how much of you you have given, how much have you shown, how much do you let yourself see?
Do you wonder what hides behind the masks you show the world, the ones you show yourself. Demons, Angels, beggars thieves, or do you sense something else, something more, something different and whose face will you wear when the Universe ends and whose did you have when it began.
What if God has no face, no name, no story.
Or what if God is every face, every name, every story …
What if God is the emptiness which leads you home, but also that which you resist, cowering inside your own mind.
Mind, a construct of events cobbled together from passing moments, or rather moments that you cling to, ones you won’t let pass, for they make you who think you are, and are you, what if you let them pass now?
Right here, right now, open to the light, open to the dark, open to the emptiness that place beyond hope where only God exists do you remember it now.
No place to stand, no thing to cling to, just the endless breathe breathing in and out and a great void within, bursting with unlimited potential.