Hollow Theology

If there were not something always missing,
there would be nowhere for light to pass through.

Some moments are so simple and unproblematically perfect that it is entirely understandable how Ancient peoples may have perceived a world so deeply infused and alive with mystery, magic and meaning.

For all our progress and the hyper-extended cognition of complex technology, we have not really come all that far since then and while to retrospectively project some Arcadian Utopia would be an exercise in pure wish-fulfilment, this enduring feeling of having lost something of an unbound innocence is hard to shake – perhaps an obligation of any narrative consciousness shaped by time, diffusion and entropy.

We never really change at heart, it is the world that changes and in observing the rippling mirrors of culture and history through filters of an isolation or difference that we each and all must bear as the inadvertent yet necessary cost of individuation, we barely notice that this living light of sentience within us was always and only ever the wake left behind by all this turbulent information and energy that flows – river-like – and through us all.

The magic is still there – it is us and no matter what masks, names or faces either we or it might wear, the meaning and hollow unity of it all is still there as well, gently-hovering and ambiguous in the mist.

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