It is a paradox. Writing a book about what is.
Nothing can be explained, it is about nothing.
There is only writing, words come from nothing, are nothing.
And yet there can be a recognition, or there can be a falling away of some beliefs.
It is talking in two worlds, who do not meet.
The me world and that what is.
For the me there is only the real and solid world.
What a challenge to meet nothing.
Where it is about nothing, nowhere to go. Where each knowing is pointless and control is seen as a illusion.
What a freedom. The answer on a longing.