One point in space and no way of knowing or understanding anything about the art of being a distinct point in space. It knows already everything there is to know, no dichotomy, no binary opposition, because point and space are one. There is no way for it to know if it is a microscopic little particle floating in the vastness of space, or one point consuming all the space. Sometimes I imagine myself to be this little-big dot, floating around in something that fluctuates between a rich world full of experiences and being it, being all that floats and all in which things can float.
Nothing, no thing at all, and yet bussling with aliveness, an empy space full of sizzling potential. To be honest I've never been completely confortable with nothing. I've been fascinated by it, I have even experienced glipses of its magnificent serenity, and yet I keep running away from it. Trapped between the fear of drawing the first line on a big piece of virgin white paper and the almost uncontrollable need to fill it, to not be able to control the dance between space and content whereby drowning the original potential it sprouted from.
