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.
She squirms against my body with an eagerness that belittles the character I’d sketched and starts pulling back slightly, not disengaging but subtly leading, so I push her up against the wall. It’s exciting and empowering and only a little staged. I work my hands over her hips, looking for zen in the curves. The awareness of my self detaches into third person with disquieting swiftness and I close my eyes, imagining I’m still me in this moment and not just an arbiter of impulses. From behind my lids I watch everything I’m doing and look for something more.
A Few Short Words 