This is the sound, this is the scent, this is the sight.
Different names separate direct vibrant experience from you that travels through your sensory and nervous system, exchanging and merging information.
There is a mystery around you that you try to grasp, but all of your attempts end up at blurred edges, where they become absorbed by the unknown. Your questions remain, echoing, sometimes echoing disguised as answers, as your objectified perception provides you with interpretation and projection. They come back as “truth”, “knowledge”, “insight”, “reality”, and blow up like a bubble, determined to burst the closer it moves to transit over the edge into the unknown.
“Truth”, “reality” and “knowledge” draw the map in which you live, which is often confused with the vibrant landscape that begins where the meaning ends. The words “truth” and “knowledge” draw the line of separation between “you” and your perception. Your images of reality are vivid, but still, they are an illusion.
In naming you make the mystery an imaginary “thing” and deprive it of its unfathomable nature. The map in which you live – its coordinates made of words, turned into concepts – pulls you deeper and deeper into its illusionary narratives of reality.
You meet time there – the fabric on which the story, your story of the past and the future, the story of “you” and “the other” is written. All of your reality is a fiction of conditioned, attached memory, focusing on an imaginary future. The mystery, however, is not in time, it is not ancient nor a future revelation. It has not yet happened, and it will never happen, while it is happening and has already happened.
It is not present as the present is also part of the map.
Although the map is not not the mystery, it is part of the mystery, but defined and confined by its worded coordinates. It’s like a brief blink in the dark night sky, it doesn’t provide the light to illuminate the sky. You will not find the mystery in these words, no matter how precisely they would try to describe it.
The mystery dwells before the scent becomes a perfume, before the sound becomes music, and before the sight becomes an image. And yet, they are not separated from each other.
It is that brief spark, in which you have never been born, and will never die. It is the void in which your name will never be known or outspoken. It is where the silence and the noise are still one, without becoming, without fading, without moving.