The Woven Void Within

How does one explain something so intrinsic, something so fundamental? How does one put words to a feeling, a fact, that they have known all of their lives? How do I explain myself to you? Why should I?

 

I have always felt this way, always known the truth; I only lacked the words. Incorrect assumptions forced a falsehood upon me, a role I reluctantly played; I am a poor actor.

 

It's not a feeling; it never has been; at least not one you can feel directly. More of an absence. A feeling only felt in reaction to another. A sign of a correction made, a misstep undone. Room temperature. Something so perfect, so tailored, that it exists only for the one it belongs to.

 

It's like darkness. But not quite. More the intrinsic grey, the eigengrau, that the brain sees instead. The rogue photons too faint to determine a source that ricochet around. The background noise of the universe contained within, made physical.

 

It's always the same, yet not to everyone. To the observer it changes, fluctuates; the mind behind the eyes paints a picture unique for each. Preconcieved notions, lessons from days past, inform the sight before them. A sight that never changes.

 

It's a combination, a blend of two extremes. Neither distinct enough to determine a definitive leaning. Ingredients combined, components assembled from instructions and recipe new. A whole familiar yet alien.

 

Darkness. But not quite. Eigengrau. Intrinsic grey. The background noise of the universe. Something in the nothing.

 

Blurred. But not distorted. Blended. Combined. Aspects of two made one. Dependent on the viewer.

 

Paradoxical. In every sense of the word. Both yet neither. There but not.