Words are echoes in an endless hall,
Each one leaning on the next for meaning,
Spinning a web of circularity—
A mirage of clarity in the desert of thought.
Reality, nothing, awareness, enlightenment—
Nothing but syllables wrapped in context,
Draped in the robes of culture,
Dressed up in the theater of philosophy and spirit.
What are they really?
Not keys to a hidden truth,
But whispers in the wind,
Carrying the illusion of a “self”
That exists only in the shadow of thought.
The self—a ghost born of language,
An artifact of words upon words.
“I am,” “I have a sense of self,”
“Nothing being everything” “I am aware of awareness.”
Do these phrases point to something real,
Or do they circle back into abstraction?
Nothing. Awareness. Truth. Self.
Each one a mirage dressed as reality,
A linguistic dance that spins the dream of separation.
And so, we build empires—
Empires of words,
Brick by brick,
Constructing belief systems
That uphold the illusion of division.
But beneath this architecture,
What is there?
Not a foundation, but air.
Not a truth, it can never be said.
And yet, this mystery is full—
Alive, vibrant, humming with nothing at all.
The empire crumbles,
And what remains?
Unspoken.
Unwritten.
Unknowable.
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