Sitting quietly, space begins to open. Not the space of rooms or distances, but something less confined. It spreads without spreading, expands without expanding. How curious that boundlessness could feel so natural.

But even this vastness seems somehow… limited? There’s a subtle grip here, a holding onto endlessness itself. What if I let even that soften a bit more?

Feel a wave of loneliness, head back down.

Then something shifts. Where space opened outward, awareness now opens inward. Not smaller, not larger—more like discovering that knowing itself has no size at all. Why should I even care? Yet, even this feels like too much furniture in an empty room.

Could there be something even quieter? The barest whisper of existence, the faintest echo of being? Yes, but only by allowing everything to become more translucent, barely there at all. It’s not even scary anymore, just a gentle acceptance.

So close, no matter how far.

Perhaps everything could touch its own absence. Not dark, not vacant—that would be too substantial. Maybe a bit like the space between thoughts thinning into the space between spaces. A tiny gap.

Here, even nothing seems like too much of something. Some fine knowing shows, leaving not even the memory of anything fixed.

Is that for real?

Lately things, they don’t seem the same…

What remains when even nothing is too much? When does “remaining” itself become a question? There’s a door that isn’t a door, a threshold that isn’t a threshold.

I sometimes think everyone knows this territory without knowing they know it. Everyone carries these depths within them, this step-by-step silence waiting to be discovered, this final chance of stepping aside completely.

You are always welcome.