Everyone looks up into the night sky and sees the stars that gleam with a scent of color, the milky streaks that paint paths, the ephemeral lines of shooting stars, and the longer lasting trails of comets. You looked, and looked, at every star, every speck, every stroke of heavens, sketched, cataloged, plotted.
When you finish looking at all of the everything, what remains is the tremendous nothing. They say the abyss stares back but you stared long and it welcomed you home to the place you have always been. Inside the between
The space between the world and the moon, between the stars, between the hills, between the houses, between the walls, between our hands, our blood, our souls is of a kind. It is all the hollow that holds us and sings us to sleep with the echoes of the cosmos -- the noise of endless stars, the noise of birds between the heavens and the earth, between birth and death -- as we drift aside to sleep.
It beckons, come here, come to where you are, come and see all the everything, and all the nothing between. Come to the cracks, the gaps, the paths forgotten by space itself, to the other places, the older places, the new trails between here and other heres.
"Where are you scholar?"
"I am in between."