That we are dancing around the perimeter of a Void is an allusive image invoked simply by being alive and considering—even incidentally—the fundamental questions of be-ing. The Void itself forms not a black hole but rather a shimmering, blinding nothingness whose edge is as well defined as our own sense of that be-ing. It is and it is not, and it takes no name.
All the while, all are dancing around it, pointing at it, exclaiming in adoration or apprehension, naming it in the varied languages of their own realities. Those names are Legion, at least one for every individual, though there is a deep suspicion among most that the naming can never be complete, can never adequately address the limitless impact that this no-thing imposes on our brief living. The act of naming is a salve to the implicit terror of falling in, as we watch others do just that. It takes no name.
The primary questions? How close might you get without falling in? What dances are appropriate? How settled does one feel with one’s personally-crafted name applied to it: the Void? Is it a name that is shared with others; a comfortable, comforting name that others recognize when one calls it out in the extremities of Life? Or is it a profane deviation, garbled, confused to those Others, at once looking on, then turning their backs to that demonstrated ignorance. It takes no name.
It would seem that some spend their entire—and perhaps brief—lifetimes on the brink, shaking in ecstatic union, breath resonant with the shimmering, balance is all, retreat sometimes necessary, unless capitulation and fall is part of the act. It certainly is the closing one. It takes no name.
The very inability to articulate a name drives some to accept what others invoke. This seems to keep it far away, a glow on one horizon, inserting presence on rare occasions, until it fills to an infinite half-space, and zenith shrinks to an event horizon of solitude, silence, and no-thing. It takes no name, and is gone.