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Thursday, 26 January 2017

(a poem for the work of non-being, of un-becoming)

I know, now, what I am craving; and it’s emptiness.
Maybe that’s what the finish line looks like in my head.
No room for anything but everything.
(Fewer words, longer silences.)

A hollowness within, that merges with the hollowness around me. 
The hollowness of the universe.

The thinning out of the self,
becoming nothing more than a translucent and porous membrane.
A bubble skin
containing only space,
where the space
is the point.

I am a smallness within the expansiveness that is god,

standing alone in a massive stone cathedral,
all Gregorian echoes
and Vermeer light.

I am losing my self in the work of non-being.

The nothing that is everything.

Wendy Stefansson

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