He had no secrets left. No defenses. He had nothing, except that same vast, dark, empty, infinite ache that had resided in him for as long as he could remember. An endless flight of stairs, leading down and down into the cold, dark pit of his soul. Now, at long last, he’d reached the absolute rock bottom. And there she was, just standing there. She’d been there all along.
…nor can we know ahead of the fact the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaningless itself.
The problem with making a virtual world of oneself is akin to the problem with projecting ourselves onto a cyberworld: there’s no end of virtual spaces in which to seek stimulation, but their very endlessness, the perpetual stimulation without satisfaction, becomes imprisoning.
The perfection of yoga, therefore, does not terminate in voidness or impersonalism; on the contrary, the perfection of yoga is attained when one actually sees the Personality of Godhead in His eternal form.
After years in utter darkness, I force my eyes into the light. For I must retain my sight, that I might view the wholeness of the void, objectively.
I’m forever writing around a void-I guess I don’t have to explain to you why that is.
…please don’t throw any more rocks at the barrier keeping the demonic hordes of the void from pouring over the world.
If I was your mirror, you would look for me more, than you do me.
I put back my head, looking up at the deep black sky swimming with hot stars. If you knew they were really balls of flaming gas, you could imagine them as Van Gogh saw them, without difficulty . . . and looking into that illuminated void, you understood why people have always looked up into the sky when talking to God. You need to feel the immensity of something very much bigger than yourself, and there it is – immeasurably vast, and always near at hand. Covering you.
We become aware of the void as we fill it.