The Realm of Effacement

Before the manifestation of Being was bound by the constraints of names, and the bird of meaning fell into the snare of words, there was nothing but a long-embracing silence, save for a faint glimmer and a fleeting blush of light; a presence at once utterly abstract and profound, yearning both to reveal itself and to remain concealed. As soon as that glimmer illuminated my eyes, the impatient intellect sought to build a cage for it, imagining it as a trembling veil in the wind, or as a body faded from memory. Yet that silken apparition, light as a butterfly, escaped the snare of conjecture and refused to wear the collar of any word.

How beautifully that wise philosopher said that the abode of beauty is where the pride of knowing collapses; a realm in which imagination and understanding, like two children at play in a sunlit house, sit together in delight, neither seeking to dominate nor imprison the other. I, too, have no desire for a definitive answer, nor do I seek certainty, for there is a perpetual joy in wandering endlessly among hidden things and mysteries.

The secret of the photograph before us lies in its syntax of effacement and concealment. It seems to me that this invisibility is not evidence of the extinction of awareness, but rather a threshold opening toward the infinity of a pure becoming. The self-regarding intellect keeps asking, “What is this?” while imagination weaves a new tale with every passing moment. The photograph is still and silent, yet the eye of the soul spreads its wings within its realm, if only for a moment, to lay down the heavy burden of “knowing” and, once again, with eyes filled with wonder, linger upon the shifting border between presence and absence.

And now, “not-seeing” itself becomes liberation; the liberation of the outer eye.