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Stuck in the void of being, we can only escape the terror of existence through the process of becoming, through converting our pain and suffering into something worthwile, something that fulfills our feelings and brings us pleasure in the short period of time we are able to experience consciousness.
In the end it is time, which gives eternity its meaning, for something that is forever perishes into the void of all oblivion.
A brief history of nothing
It is through darkness through which we enlighten, because through obscurity we are able to ignite our own flame and begin to illuminate our own suffering and misery.
Even the darkest abyss can bring the highest form of enlightenment. And more than often it is through suffering through which we can experience joy and happiness.
Life is not meant to never hurt; Actually pain is what makes us feel alive, and moreover it is through pain through which we really grow.
Even the most obscure darkness offers a glimpse of light. Once we are able to understand what darkness really is; a base, a foundation, a medium, merely like an unwritten piece of paper that wants to be filled.
Darkness often represents void, and why should we consider void to have a negative meaning? Why do we find a lack of purpose depressing, if we, we ourselves can create meaning all by ourselves?
The hunt for a primordial sense of purpose is rather futile. - See, isn't it kind of ironic? Maybe the only point of meaning is pointlessness itself; Once you hunt it, it will disappear.
But once you just are, the entire concept of a pre-defined sense appears rather illogical, and therefor futile.
Because the only sense of sense seems to be to make sense, do I make sense?
Who would have guessed that stars only live by burning themselves under tremendous pressure?
Perhaps the key to all life lies in suffering?
We should re-evaluate "suffering" and "pain", because these are what makes us grow:
That the only sense of meaning is futility itself, because only in a blank book new stories can arise.
What would life be worth if it were pre-determined by something as futile as meaningfulness?
Even though the meaning of every being is completely extinguished if one tries to fathom it?
Thus the meaning of every being can only flourish solely by simply being.
It takes a lot of courage to find pleasure in the process of suffering and a lot of suffering in order to understand the essence of life itself: In recognizing the pain we can understand what "growth" actually is, because this is a direct indicator for the constant metamorphosis of life.
The meaning of being lies solely in the process of becoming.
In order to become what we really are, we should let go of what we were, or merely what we thought we were.
Life is just a metamorphosis, a constant transformation of the past into the future in the furnace of the only real reality there is; The very present moment in which we are able to experience consciousness, for the past is just a memory and the future only a dream!
Destruction is just a form of creation.
The end beginning is near.
"Who am I?"
;I ask.
"You will never know who I am, yet you know it already since the beginning of your time;
Because I am you,
and you are me.
Man smashed paradise because he wanted to find himself,
unable to differentiate between himself and the entirety,
he shattered the whole because he couldn't recognize himself.
Thus he created hell himself,
feeding him with experience,
nourishing him with impressions,
teaching him the art of life,
showing him who he is by making him see what he is not.
With the fragments he now holds in his own hands,
he contemplates the fragments of his own being;
and recognizes he holds the seeds of creation in his very own hands.
He has created himself by breaking down his own entirety;
reassembling them like a mosaic into an entirely new being.
Man has left paradise,
because he wanted to create paradise himself.
That is the cycle of creation.
From dust we arise, to dust we return.
The Non-Existence.
Who am I - or who do I think I am?
As my being appears,
it might seem quite inconspicuous,
that the question about being,
more specifically, the question about my being,
vanishes into itself;
The entire concept of being seems to be a deception of its own.
You will never know who or what I am,
yet you know it already since the beginning of your time;
because I, oh I bid you a warm welcome
in the wonderful mirror world of my being
- or should I say deception?
I am nothing,
but not the nothing you might imagine,
because I am everything,
or at least the foundation that bears everything.
I am all that is,
and at the same time none of it;
because I am my own invertium.
Polarity is the basis of my unity.
Because I;
I am.
I am the non-existence.
Time is but the current of change.