The rain poured. Rain drops kept hitting the outside of his window.
He never witnessed a storm of this level, but refused to make it his reality.
He thought he couldn't do it if he tried. And trying was something he didn't want to because he felt like it, at the moment, he felt like it was to be how he favoured it.
"Every moment that was, but wasn't yet, was to be yet again before it could be."
Thinking about this made him forget about the rain. Forget about the storm that was knocking on behalf of making itself noticeable to him who was not listening, who didn't want to listen.
Why wouldn't he listen? Wasn't he the one who read every information and left aside emotion? Why was he allowed to even have such dreadful thoughts?
He didn't know. Information wasn't the source of knowledge he had to attain to answer this question. The answer, to this question, was in the very thoughts he had, just from thinking.
Meaning wasn't anything to him. He just wanted to know, but the knowledge tainted him; his ability to be slowly declined.
At this very moment of realization he ascended.
The ascension was different. It felt different.
But it was the same. The same as always.
Why did he feel that way?
Feel.
Was this the source?
He ought to know.
But he will never be able to.
For his is everything, but nothing, full, but empty, a void of...