There is something hidden-strange, non-actual, ineffable. Closest perhaps to a peerless Egyptian granite of a man and a woman. We are found in the place of our nakedness, in the intangible schema of something traced without regard for time, empty of it, and yet potent with expression in perpendiculars and curves. It is a wholeness of indelibility. These are the arisings of the room called 2.
Here is eternity luminously inchoate. All of the senses strain to picture even a drop of its oil. So much is wished that is hidden from view, so much can be encoded upon itself.
Here is the form of a man who can do nothing but fail. Here is the love letter written upon the heart that didn’t know it was there. Here is the star about to go supernova. Here is the ineluctable genius of the grand unified theory of everything. Here is the ashen-faced scientist mystically peering into the mushroom-shaped oblivion where he witnesses the excoriating light pick the flesh off of the bones of the Earth. Here is the form of sorrow and of joy. There may be a way in, but there is no way out of the room called 2.
In the room called 2 you cannot say exactly what things are, but there is the certainty that they will stand as they are. There is no king or queen, or mother or father of this room. There is the form of the writing upon the wall.
There is no trend or change of order. Nothing follows and in this there is the deep note of aching, of wishing to get on with things. The emanation of this ache finds its way into the very essence of all things. This is the ache of the separation from that which might further come to be.