but of course

But of course, this is what it's always been: a fortnight of shadows to hang onto, luminescent around their frail edges.

You, a shadow, the main puppet on the stage. Those that witness Plato's Cave don't realize they're also dancing in the troupe.

Who is the one observing? Who is the one observing the observer? What means to an end, this learning that we're the frail ones all along?

There's nothing to be fraught with except fear itself, yet fear itself is a diminishing waiting to happen.

Just the light of awareness touching the curling edge of the page, and the page softens and smoothens and lays itself flat.

Yet who is the ink that writes on the page? Every cursive flourish is another rabbit hole thoroughly lived. Every heartbreak is breaking open to a delicious longing.

It is ourselves that we ache for, but it is ourselves that don't exist.

Who was the one observing? Who was the one observing the observer? Who is the one feeling the heartbreak, the longing ache, the desire for something more?

What if there was nothing more? What if this was all there is? What if the sense-making is in itself a relief?

It's a relief from the being when the being gets too intense. Yet isn't the being what we came for all along?

But of course this is all that there is. There was never anything more, because there was never anything at all.

We dress up our words with parades of frameworks, lingering on the tip of our tongues, yet there's nothing to taste except taste itself.

This is what it always was. You could never offer anything more. This is what's always been, what always will be.

Yet that doesn't stop the chafe of the shore when the water hits it dead-on, when the sand gets in all the crevices except for the crevices that long to be filled.

Deepening in the shadows at the bottom of the sea, there is nothing here to see except sight itself.

Who is the one observing? Who is the one observing the observer? Who is the one that sees the patterns that sink into the deep sea of knowing and not knowing?

This is who you always were. There was nothing more of you to know.

The swirls and the eddies and the figuring out of what was, what once was versus what's here now, of somebody that I used to know.

Is that somebody you or me, or myself, or my selves? But of course, there was never just one. There was always simultaneously just none.

Yet you are me as I am you. Yet this revelation doesn't seem to land into the crevices that need and yearn for it most.

These crevices are a light unto itself. The shadow needs the light to be a shadow, just like the light needs a shadow to be the light.

You were the shadow to my light, and I was the shadow to yours.