Somewhere within the void of not understanding lies a seed of knowing that which is not “I” — not “my” identity, not “my” story. At times it may intrigue, excite or even overwhelm. Other times, it may be missed altogether or perhaps overlaid by what we do understand, thus distorting the information and lending to a true misunderstanding. This is the beginning of an illusion of sorts, a blind path in the Daedalus labyrinth. What happens when we are fortunate enough to be aware and wait longer, without asserting meaning and write it down so it registers in the mind and lies suspended?