Nothing at all…
Nothing at all has changed to truly state the unstateable.
The confusion we believe to be our lives, is nothing more than life unfolding in a nothingness mess of messiness; all is well.
Nothing to do, nothing to be, nothing to call you nor me, and certainly not a we.
But a wee bit about nothing much, has always told us something such.
For example, in 1647, a fabulous year for something, I am certain, the same suchness that plays out today, was such a thing as yesterday.
You do remember, don’t you, the time when you were told about that day when nothing much happened in 1647, during the month of May.
Nothing coming to mind…
Well nothing too much for you, nor for me, and certainly not for we.
What of them, whom I don’t know, you know those people who were doing nothing much other than what humans do, in a year much like twenty twenty two?
Eating, sleeping, dreaming, believing in such and such as we do, beings being beings just as in 2022…
Now 1647 is as random as 1711 or 322 or -464, which is certainly a year we all adore.
Surely you remember -464, the year of more is less and less is more. It was written somewhere, I am sure of it.
It doesn’t matter.
I was going on about nothing anyways.
There is alway nothing, as nothing appears to be something and something is certainly nothing more than something that was before.
It is in this way that nothing matters more and more.
Nothing is always becoming something.
And that is the beauty of nothing.