I’m a lover of words. I use language to identify myself and others. I connect memories by composing an autobiographical narrative.

But I’ve found out a truth. It scared me at first. Sometimes, it’s correct to not define an experience in the matrix of words, to leave it nameless. Nirvana is outside of space and time, explaining why formlessness and ineffability come to mind—if any words at all. Trying to fit the forever expanse into an idea with shape pushes you out of moksha. Adding word constructs to the infinite stillness perturbs the water, distorting the image. It defies definition. It’s nothingness alive.

This realization scared me because I’d hoped—with the gift of writing—I could help share this experience with others. Saying it’s “indefinable” is like giving up, it seemed.

But then I had another realization. It’s okay to describe what it felt like. I just have to understand how futile a perfect analog is. My words, however unequipped for such an alien state of existence, can still help others find tranquility and confidence that Buddha is in them.

The rain streams down like

Cobwebs exposed by the light,

Hung from the heavens.

I breathe in my last.

What is happening to me?

I let out the breathe.

Each moment in life

Is a lotus mala seed—

Still in transition.

Poetry comes the closest.