For the next week or two, my letters will stop coming. I chose to gift myself, and maybe you, a well-earned break.
A fierce longing for the Void hit me. I want to stew in my own juices. Ferment. Let noble mold grow.
From a rational view, this is reckless. The critic inside me chokes on arguments about duty, order, business, creativity, rituals. Five years of newsletters isn’t nothing.
But I’ve long known the mind misses what truly matters. First among them is the Void, which the mind fears, sure that “stopping life means death.” Such a sweet fool.
The paradox: a one can only be born from zero. All those bold shapes, complex graphs, and big numbers come only after the X, Y, Z axes are drawn.
First, there was Nothing. Zilch. The origin. The starting point.
This feels like my old ritual. Years ago, every five to seven years, I’d vanish for weeks into Peru’s jungles, the Himalayas’ pines, or somewhere else. This time it’s different—I stay put, yet travel far.
No psychedelics. No mysticism. The cosmos lives inside us all.
Sometimes it terrifies us with icy darkness and cold silence. But that’s just a mirror of how we face the abyss. Pay warm attention to it, and a black hole turns into a horn of plenty.
Where there was nothing, everything we need will rise. Maybe not how or when we expect. But in the end, we’ll be grateful we trusted that strange urge within.
I hope this “in-between” does us all good.
Sincerely yours,
-Alexander
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