The slightest crevice in between the un-inhabited and virtually inhabited, almost fleeting and yet it somehow exists continually. It is like a fraction in time, it is there and at the same time it does not exist because isn’t it, the acknowledgement of identity that renders anything the state of existing. It is that space I talk about, the bridge between the Self and supposed self. Overtime, the lines are blurred, with us continuously erasing and rewriting ourselves, the original un-scribbled, un-inked, that grey but almost white parchment of the Self, becomes quiescent. It never transcends. Not because of the insufficient language, that paralyses the emotions when given a physical form; the deceiving phrases do little to harm the incandesce of the verses. It is not the writer that ought to be blamed, rather it is the writing itself. Words howsoever precise or beautiful cannot impersonate feelings that rush like water. How can you emote something that is beingness itself? So what would you call that vague crevice? How would to name it when it is an abstraction of an ambivalent state? It is this “in-between “that I would like to believe, where the Artist exists. Somewhere in-between something and nothing, the ideal haven to the idle.