Beyond that unending veil of ignorance, an unseen occupier sits comfortably with a subdued-smile swirling on its lips.
It is the source of power—the driving force that initiates everything, yet, it takes no credits. There is no second one to whom it can show the ‘I got credits’ placard.
It assumes a deep and genuine unconcerned-ness towards anything and everything that happens on this side of the veil.
It is thoroughly occupied with the functionality of this side’s activity, but it has got all the time for idling.
The wheel of time, or even the track of time, is continuous, perennial and perpetual. It keeps moving on.
There is no restriction, no barrier, no block that can mar its progress.
Yet, the unseen-occupier sits un-aged, un-affected and un-touched by the strokes of the clock that has no needles and no hinge-point.
Prodding about the benefit or usage of this creation does not elicit any reply.
It is just there—there is no escape because there is no entrance.
The spirit of a play lies in its enjoyment—it turns serious, funny, irritating, frustrating, ghastly, ironic, melodramatic, tormenting, unbearable, spiritual, and even fulfilling.
Yet, there is nothing that comes out of it, for, it envelopes everything.
The occupier feels lonely. So it creates everything from itself and plays.
The play takes the wheel of time…it is continuous, perennial and perpetual.