By Barry Long
Nothing.
Nothing but I.
Origin
Black, undistinguished, indistinguishable
Being Outside the world
Static
Forever aware
Forever
Forever present
Forever unformed
Forever unable to tell the secret of My being.
Yet, not from withholding
For I am Origin
Source
Beginning
Everness
Now
It.
Nothing.
I am producing Nothing.
And you, My Love,
Are producing Everything.
As Nothing
I am Supreme Being
Origin indescribable
No-suchness
A mystery
Of non-stirring, knowledge, ceaseless undetectable
presence.
I am Origin of all action and sound
And My agency, the lesser being, the creator
Is Love.
Love is all.
Life is the action of Love
Love’s business
The never-ending tireless endeavour to enact My Being
To describe with creation what I am
And lovingly creating what I am not.
Love fails.
Love always fails, yet never tires of failing
(Even now, Love groans at its own inadequacy to
express in words the Truth I am.)
This the impossible, hopeless task of love
The reason why love lives to serve
Yet must forever remain sufficient only to itself, that task.
Love is the only means I have
And the only means to Me
Nothing.
I am producing Nothing.
An unimaginable substantive endingness
More real than even Love.
I am the space, the pause, the perimeter of sound and
form.
I enable Love’s beauty to be seen.
Where All and the Nothing meet is Man.