بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

shardless

there is a point, in between destruction and creation, where sense fades to dust, while the heart embraces all there is to feel, to yield a thing complete yet not quite finished. it has no edges, no separated pieces, but to look inside would show a million different prisms, as if light itself were made from things so chaotic seeming. I've never known such a state, balanced betwixt two such planes, neither doom nor salvation, but an intermingled fulcrum, of what seems to me as one and same. still, the lungs breathe, and blood flows, the Journey's end, a thing I long to know.