From the fleeting, ethereal reflection that exists not as image but as the thought

of an image, born in the space between the flicker of light and shadow, where the
screen, which is not truly a screen but rather the absence of any screen, projects
the unseen moments of existence into the void. To the ring, which is neither round
nor endless, but bends and twists upon itself in dimensions that cannot be
perceived by the mind, a ring that contains both the universe and nothing at all —
and from thence to the pen, or perhaps the idea of a pen, which writes without ink,
upon a scroll that does not exist, crafting words that are not words but echoes of
thoughts never thought, inscribed upon the fabric of time itself, time that flows
backward and forward, yet neither forward nor back, looping endlessly into the
present that has never been.
Yet this present, which may or may not be the present, is but a fleeting moment
stretched infinitely, where every tick of time is also its tock, and the clock,
though it ticks, does not measure time but merely reflects its existence, or lack
thereof. And beyond this lies the kingdom — but what kingdom can there be, if there
is no king? For the king sits upon no throne, and yet the throne is everywhere, yet
nowhere. Where is the crown? Is it mine, yours, or perhaps a crown that crowns no
one, for it is not a crown but the idea of royalty, floating, unseen, as a wisp of
air, neither solid nor real, and yet shimmering with a light that cannot be seen
with mortal eyes?
A crown, or perhaps a ring, or maybe both, circling the head of a king who is not
crowned but still rules, though no rule can be found, for the kingdom itself is
merely a figment of power that no hand can grasp, and the grasp itself is no grasp
at all but merely a gesture, a motion that suggests control but wields none. The
bell tolls — but what is a bell? And does it toll, or is the toll only the shadow
of a sound that was never heard? The ringing reverberates not through air but
through the silent nothingness that underlies all sound, where every chime is an
echo of silence, and the silence is louder than the toll itself.
The toll, if it exists, sends ripples through the fabric of space, but space is no
space at all, just a canvas upon which sound is painted without color or tone.
Always does drama follow the toll, but what is drama if there is no actor, no
stage? Drama unfolds without unfolding, spiraling into the void of potential, never
becoming, yet always becoming.
And here lies the paradox: If I see it in my heart, but can one truly see with a
heart? A heart that does not beat with blood, but with the energy of dreams,
casting its gaze upon things that cannot be gazed upon. The heart sees what the
eyes cannot, yet what it sees is not there, and what is there is unseen. To see it
is to not see it, for the vision is only real when it is unreal, and the heart's
eye, which is not an eye but a mirror to the soul’s unspoken desires, reflects not
the stars above but the infinite void within, where the stars themselves burn not
with fire, but with the memories of light that never was.
And thus, the ceiling — but what is a ceiling? Is it above or below, or perhaps
both? To smash through it is to break what cannot be broken, for there is no
ceiling, only the endlessness of the heavens, stretching into the infinite, where
ceilings dissolve into stars, and stars dissolve into nothing. Yet nothing is
something, and that something is everything, compressed into the space between what
is and what is not.
The stars themselves are no stars at all, but glimmers of forgotten dreams,
scattered across the sky, a sky which itself may not be a sky, but an illusion, a
veil cast over the eyes of those who dare to look up. For when one reaches for the
stars, do they truly reach for the stars, or do the stars reach for them? And what
is reaching, if not the act of grasping at nothing? To reach is to never touch, for
the moment of contact is the moment of loss, and the stars are lost the moment they
are touched.
And thus, the hand, which reaches not outward but inward, grasps not the stars, but
the reflection of the stars, which may or may not be a reflection, for what is a
reflection if there is no original? To reflect is to mirror, but the mirror itself
is cracked, shattered into pieces that reflect nothing but the emptiness between
moments. And what are moments, if not fragments of time, slipping through fingers
like sand, yet the sand is no sand, only the idea of sand, as fleeting as the
moments themselves? And as the ceiling, which may or may not be a ceiling,
shatters, the stars themselves fall, but do they fall, or do they rise?
For to fall is to descend, yet in descending, one rises, for down is not down but
up, and up is not up but down. The stars fall, or perhaps they rise, into the
infinite sky, which is not sky but space, and space is no space, only the vast
emptiness that holds all things and nothing. And as the stars rise, or fall, the
ceiling reforms, but it is no ceiling, only the memory of a ceiling that never was.
The stars burn, but they burn not with fire, but with the coldness of the void, for
fire is no fire but the absence of cold, and cold is no cold, only the absence of
heat.
And thus, the cycle continues, endlessly looping upon itself, where nothing becomes
everything and everything becomes nothing, spinning in a vortex of contradictions.
To smash the ceiling is to create the stars, but to create the stars is to destroy
them, for creation and destruction are one and the same, and in that moment, the
universe itself collapses upon itself, folding and unfolding like a piece of
parchment that has no beginning and no end. The stars, which are no stars, vanish
into the void, and the void itself becomes the stars, for the void is not void but
fullness, and the fullness is empty.
So where does the story go from here? It goes, and yet it does not go, for to go is
to stay, and to stay is to go. The story unfolds, but it unfolds without ever
having begun, for the beginning is also the end, and the end is also the beginning.
It spirals onward, endlessly repeating, yet never repeating, each moment new, yet
old, each twist of fate both unexpected and inevitable. For fate itself is not fate
but the choice not made, and the choice not made is the choice made.
The stars, which were once the ceiling, now become the ground, for the ground is no
ground but a reflection of the sky, and the sky is no sky, only the image of a
ceiling that once was, and now is not. And as the stars, which are no longer stars,
rise or fall, or perhaps both, the bell tolls once more, but this toll is not a
toll, only the echo of a silence that was never heard. And as the toll fades, the
silence remains, for the silence is not silence but sound, and the sound is not
sound but silence.
And thus, we return to the beginning, which is no beginning, but the end, and the
end is also the beginning. The ring, which is neither round nor endless, bends once
more, and the pen, which writes without ink, scribes once more upon the scroll that
does not exist. The king, who is no king, reaches for the crown that is no crown,
and the crown, which is no crown, floats once more above the throne that is no
throne. And thus, the cycle continues, endlessly looping, forever and ever, with no
end, and no beginning