Encountering a Blank

What is it to warm myself by a fire that rises with no cause of flame?
A Levitating burning without even a splinter to light.
Almost defined as a legand, a whimisical folk-tale of a fairy's slight of hand.

It's quite foolish to imagine even knowing you, to label the cogs a-working in the labyrinthine corridors of your brain. But there is little resistance, there is no force to quell the rampant desire to read you like decadent literature to cause a riot in the most solemn nunnery, to wrap myself deep in such arcane knowledge, like a lush and stolen cape. A predictable impossibility.

Seeking you outside this worldly institutuion seems the fool's choice, claim that you're not real, or magical, or something not as human as my kith and kin. Even as you are not of this world, you are, and it is a laughable distinction, that curls the mind in mathmatical oxymoron, for such knowledge is the world itself, shaded in hues of conspicuous mystery.

With such a life like a metaphor, living ethereal like a comparrison, perhaps a painting created by unknown artists intoxicated with their anonymity, giving life to art all the more meaningful for it's unknown motivation and meaningless blankness.