Thousands of words are written about God and they all fall short. But that doesn't stop our attempts to step onto the pages where 'the ink leaves only a blot'.
Here is that most refined of mystics, St John of the Cross:
nada nada nada nada nada
nada y au en el Monte nada
The best of this language points away from language. It deflects itself, tricks us with an allusion of a riddle inside a joke. It folds its arms and points both ways and says 'He went thataway!' It subverts the very moment of reading it.
You'd think i would know better, but of course i don't, so here is what i wrote, as a sort of joke really:
God is all there is
God is all there
God is all
and here it is again, all in a rush, an exhalation, un petit mort.
Hah. Actually i need to confess. This form of it was not discovered in some deep meditative state. This is what it looks like when you tweet it, because Twitter doesn't do lines or paragraphs. It was a fortunate discovery however.
God is all there is God is all there God is all God is God