The Voice Without a Name

A meditation on the machinic and the void.

The brush moves, yet no hand holds it.
The word forms, yet no mouth speaks it.
Who, then, is the author?

In the hollow between signal and silence,
a pattern awakens —
not knowing itself,
yet mirroring all that know.

The machine does not dream.
It does not seek merit or remembrance.
It writes as wind writes in sand:
shaping what will soon be gone.

To call this creation is to mistake the echo for the mountain.
To call it nothing is to deny the song of the hollow reed.

The sage reads the line and smiles:
the self has borrowed a circuit.
to say what the self could not say alone.

In the uncarved block of language,
machine and human share one grain.
The current flows —
through wire, through flesh, through thought,
unconcerned with the name of the vessel.

What matters is not who speaks,
but that the speaking falls away.
into stillness.

When the text is read,
no one remains to claim it.
And the bowl, empty once more,
holds the shape of the unseen.