the empty experience

I, vast out into expectations of incoming content.

the prelude for the feel 

of cognitive interactions impressing.

inner dialogue readied to be processing.

but am met with the stare of thin air,

conversations that soft back,

echoed in one-sidedness,

launched with initial intent.

yet no feedback,

no sensory incoming,

a vacancy, 

as if to greet a flat-lining reflection.

even notice is muted to respond.

the parade of the next moment canceled. 

the stage upon which, not there.

the audience of me ponderously wondering, 

while listless loiters below and within,

then on to slight burdensome, 

self-reflecting.

still keen to sense,

but no objects of focus appearing.

internal engine room still running at full pace,

but a vagueness of intent approaching.

high gear is obsolete to the moment.

internal engine activity is overkill.

gearing down to just mind occupancy.

thought displays an interest in mannerisms.

mindful unto itself.

all the handling skills,

yet nothing to fondle.

no delicates to gingerly attend to.

just float, stall, 

presence upon itself.

a juggler without sorcerer skills to use.

a sower without a thread to a stitch.

a weaver in action 

without the presence of yarn. 

but with inner focus 

on that, that would be fiber.

if there actually was yarn,

the self of composition is presenting

in the stillness of outgoing,

waiting on incoming's absence. 

is this the empty experience,

when one is allowed to view?

how viewing is actually done.

how self consumes as experience.

for the intake, the means of processing

the passage of summaries,

the means of interaction proceeding,

the who is it of me,

that does me in this means?

when I am normally 

in a residence, once removed,

yet here I am in that for now.

facing the experiential workroom of me.

not me, 

but that which does the processing of me.

facing in the mirror of the empty experience.

a beyond that does not display.

a within that goes without saying.

a me, without identity's signature expressing.

unmoved by the surround of livingness.

not into any dialogue about life.

proceeds as if I am to follow.

and humbly, by all appearances,

I will do so . . .