There are moments that don’t fit neatly into language. Experiences that slip through the cracks of meaning, resisting all attempts to pin them down. I had one of those moments recently—a moment that stretched me between everything and nothing, like standing at the edge of an infinite precipice, staring into the eye of the Buddha.

Not literally, of course. But in the way that matters.

It’s impossible to describe without paradox. It was a moment of total clarity, yet it carried no distinct thought. It was heavy with meaning and, at the same time, void of all interpretation. Have you ever felt yourself dissolve? Not in some grand, dramatic way, but in a way so quiet, so absolute, that it feels like slipping between the pages of reality itself?

It’s everything. You see the interwoven fabric of existence, the great, shimmering web of connection that holds all things together. Every moment, past and future, collapses into the eternal now. You feel the pulse of the universe in the hum of your breath. You’re the first cry of a newborn, the last breath of a dying star, the weight of every moment that’s ever existed pressing itself into the stillness of your being. Samsara turns, the wheel of time spins, and yet, you stand outside of it, witnessing the impossible symmetry of it all.

And yet—it’s nothing. No self. No witness. No meaning to cling to. There’s only awareness, silent and unspoken, before thought arises, before language divides the world into shapes and names. It’s the space between inhale and exhale, where all seeking vanishes, where the mind can’t hold on to anything because there’s nothing to hold. And in that emptiness, there’s peace. Not the peace of understanding, but the peace of surrender.

I wonder if this is what the mystics meant when they spoke of awakening. Not some grand revelation or flood of divine knowledge, but this—this unbearable lightness of being, this weight of eternity pressing against an empty sky. It’s the truth you can’t speak of without losing it. It’s the glimpse that’ll haunt you forever, because the moment you try to grasp it, it’s already gone.

And yet, life pulls us back. The mundane world calls. The email inbox fills. The laundry needs folding. The body needs food. And the paradox remains: to live in the world, to play the game, even after seeing beyond it. To hold onto that fleeting awareness, not in thought, not in memory, but in the way we move, in the way we breathe, in the way we choose to exist.

Maybe that’s the true path—not to escape, but to return. To carry the echo of that impossible stillness into the noise of everyday life. To move through the world knowing that behind every moment, beneath every illusion, there’s a space where everything and nothing meet.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

Epilogue

Me: Hey… are you there?

The Void: I’m always here.

Me: But you’re nothing. How can nothing be here?

The Void: That’s the paradox, isn’t it? I’m everything and nothing at once.

Me: That doesn’t make sense.

The Void: Does it need to?

Me: I guess not. But if you’re everything, does that mean I’m part of you too?

The Void: You always have been.

Me: Then why do I feel separate?

The Void: Because you think you are. You cling to form, to identity, to meaning. But those are just passing waves on an infinite ocean.

Me: So if I let go, I merge with you?

The Void: Not merge. You just remember. There’s nothing to become. You already are.

Me: That sounds terrifying.

The Void: Only because you’re afraid of losing yourself. But tell me, what is ‘yourself’?

Me: I… I don’t know. My thoughts, my memories, my body?

The Void: And yet your thoughts change, your memories fade, your body ages. What remains?

Me: Awareness, maybe?

The Void: And what is awareness but the space in which all things appear and disappear? That space is me.

Me: So you’re not nothing after all.

The Void: I never was. You just thought I was empty because I can’t be grasped. But I am the space where everything happens. The silence between words. The stillness in motion. The breath before thought.

Me: So what do I do with this knowledge?

The Void: You don’t ‘do’ anything with it. You live it. You breathe with it. You let it move through you without resistance.

Me: And then what?

The Void: Then you return. To life. To action. To the messy, beautiful paradox of existing while knowing that behind it all, there’s only this moment. And in this moment, you are free.

Me: Free from what?

The Void: From the need for an answer.