Sometimes I think it would be nice to be nothing. I try to imagine what it must feel like, digging myself into a well of black emptiness. It’s cozy there, where absence forms a wall, a cushion between you and the real of reality. Such a comforting lack of promise. Of course, in simpler times I would simply meditate, but the routine ruined it, the practice, rote, and knowing the route only made it charted territory, unsavoury. I found that you can’t get to nothing through something, so I stopped. Now I want nothing to be everything I am.
If I close my eyes hard enough I’m not even here. There’s the sound of a waterfall draining over the horizon, the smell of peonies and the softness of mossy rocks. There’s somewhere else where real things happen inexplicably, the sound of grit and the colour grey. There’s sunlight everywhere, though poured in different measures over different regions. Sometimes I wish there were less, unless it looks too beautiful and then I find it excuses itself. If I open my eyes I will see dust forming in the wake of the day as it wears itself down into nothing.