Of Mootness Most High & Streams Poured for Naught
⁘ “Not the Book of Job or the Book of Lot. Despite the struggles. Squatting at the gates of a doomed civilization. It's the Book of Moot. The wailings of a voice in the wilderness. The tales of Soloman hailing from the ancient yonders. Hollow of hollows, void of voids, moot of moots. What is crooked, it cannot be straightened. Only the uncountable is lacking.”
So that's a whole lot of job there.
A job well done.
But this ain't the Book of Job or the Book of Lot.
Despite the adversities and the struggles,
despite squatting at the gates of a doomed civilization.
It's the Book of Moot.
The wailings of a voice in the wilderness.
The tales of Soloman hailing from the ancient yonders.
Oṁ layaṁ layaṁ sūrālayaṁ sulayamānaṁ manonāśāt prākṛta-saṁskṛtam.
Hollow of hollows, void of voids,
moot of moots, generation after generation.
The sun goes up and down.
Any way the wind blows.
Rains, the streams flow, into the basin, and back it cycles again.
And how the fires of our grind ever so burn.
Yet what is crooked, it cannot be straightened,
and what is lacking cannot be counted.
For only the uncountable is lacking.
That bright white light of conscious radiance
before it hits the prism,
before it becomes the subject shell.
And all things must happen, as they do,
in this great machinery of creation.
Even the Book of Moot must be written, as a testament,
as a statement on "what is" and "what is not" – what is lacking.