All life is really just so much fiction, so much groundless or uncertain probability and where those fictions meet and reinforce like patterned swells and crests or passing cadence of ocean waves, we call them reality. We construct a whole world from meanings and definitions that are in themselves nothing and there in blind unknowing, we inhabit these hollow spaces and proceed – as though by some self-inflected logical origami of so much folded and contoured emptiness – to make our lives out of them.
The persistent presence of absence – of love, of meaning, of truth or happiness – is a measure of the extent to which we have made our world from what is an intangible emptiness, but there is something more than this, something subtle which sits just outside definition, knowledge or the clockwork truths and half-mirrored labyrinths of narcissistic self-definition.
The truly valuable, soulful things in life are all unprovable truths and for all this they are commonly indistinguishable from superficial or shallow existence; this is why so many of us are so confused – we mistake one emptiness and meaningless impossibility for another and fail to recognise that while the shallow waters of everyday life appear indistinguishable from the mysterious depths, they are fundamentally different.
The most profound truths are unprovable and this renders them unintelligible, but there is the beauty of it. We do not need to understand to control by knowledge that which is constitutively beyond all aspiration to control. Letting go, unknowing, embracing the endless mystery of emptiness and indefinable, essentially meaningless heart of reality, of Self and Other or World is the only way this human experiment and civilisation can ever survive.
All said, all done; no one is listening.