A Pulsing, A Throbbing 

I looked at the object and it seemed to have a shape and a story 
Then I looked at the background 
And the object disappeared 
The background looked vast and without edges 
But had I now objectified the background? 
Suddenly there was silence 
As I knew that every answer is what every object is made of 
And there was nothing 
But a pulsing 
A throbbing 
Life