Nothing...

 

Sitting before my laptop, in fact half lying before it, I am thinking what does this words goanna do to me and I just type nevertheless never worried about who is going to read because most of the prose I write I do read it not after I finish.  Now the room was all silence, just a light, and a fan over my head, the oozing noise of my little old air conditioner, me and my laptop.  That is it all I have here but from where comes all these words which make no sense at all if somebody as to read it for any use to them.  The only way to understand these words is to learn occultism and take me out of my body and get it to my brain and read all that I stored in my hippocampus.  I am here, writing just because I’m alive only those few minutes I write, all other minutes and all other time all my organs work, my heart pumps the blood, my blood travels all around my body, my brain continue to try remembering all that I could but I never had a thought that I am alive.  All other time I am just like any other social human beings on this earth who live because they are born and they are born because a couple was married and forced to live together.  But that is not what I am here to talk or write.

Then, what is there to write here? And the answer is probably nothing.  How could somebody write lines and lines when there is nothing to write? The answer is pretty straight forward, but before that there is another question.  Why does a baby laughs looking at a twinkle of a light, flash of a know face, kiss of a mother?  And when the answer to this question is answered there exist no question of “How can somebody write when there is nothing to write?”  One who writes with nothing in mind is somebody who is affected by all that he sees or all that he saw in his life.  Also he could be someone who is not affected at all with the happening of his life.  And I am a writer of both the type, slightly confused where do I fall.  Life detaches me from all that I think were divine and it even detaches me from all that were lustful and tasteful.  When ever I fall in love with these words, I write not more than a sentence and when ever I detach from what I love I feel like I have thousands of lines flowing from nowhere to write about that love.  If you reread the last sentence, it is not about something I love but it is about that love.  For a long time I thought what ever I like is love – the object – but there exist a pulling force that which detaches me from the object I love and I learnt that that the force that detaches is the love, and again I am slightly confused here.

I am neither an atheist nor a theist because both searched for God and concluded there on there own decision or with some scientific facts that somebody has proposed.  I believe not in the existence of God but a greater power than what we refer to God.  If you predict that I am going to talk about “Love” then I should say a “sorry” here.  The one who doubts whether God exist in the stone statue is a theist and one who believes it is just a stone, there could be no God, is an atheist.  I stay away from both because I see Godliness in that statue, the greater power that rules this world.  I see God in the eyes of the statue, in gesture of the statue, the strong built of the statue, in the brightness of the statue when it glows in light. I see God.  I see God in the space between the sculptor’s hand and the stone with which it is sculpted.  I believe that is where God exist.  If you do not see that you will either live the life of an atheist or a theist and never the life of that of a sculptor who could see something more than a God, the Godliness in a perfect disoriented stone.