I have heard that before the beginning is the presence. The presence is spacious, clear, and radiant of light and sound and touch and taste, pervading every possible dimension, thus has no dimension, neither time, nor space, nor place, nor thought. Fully aware. So why bother with words? Yet, I am told, the presence spoke and thus gave birth to manifest forms, to bodies, to concepts, to memory. To paradox.
So I invoke, generate, create the illusion of manifest yet complete awareness. And ask for the light to penetrate. It starts, then fades to a man in a dark suit hunched over like an old man in my grandmother's synagogue, his back to my gaze. I implore. Slowly, the black suit dissolves to reveal the image I've learned to conjure. The light softly penetrates in hazy colors. For the time being, I am content.
I make everything die. Each time I click, or make a mark, or drop a blob of plastic color, I murder the purity of the unarticulated mess. I turn timeless wisdom into cliche. Every word affirms our separation. I push you closer to your death. But if I don't keep trying, then what? We have to keep trying to reunite.
You can't plagiarize Buddha. All you can do is rearrange words. Put old words into new contexts. Make up new words to approach nonwords.