Today I will write about Nothing: About holes in the earth where wise men have stumbled. About lost tribes in jungles where Jaguars prey. About Mayan priests who have proclaimed the end of the age. And of how the universe will slowly dim like a bulb.
Today I will finger little beads of ennui. One by one I will finger them. Wondering which is the beginning, and which the end of Nothing. I have time on my smooth, pearly hands. They are stained with the blood of sacrifice. And it is I on the altar, bored, waiting for the dagger to fall.
Television, cocaine, sex, ice cream cannot fill Nothing. It is too large, too small, too high, too low, too deep. It is a spider that feeds on its victim. It is a woman who swallows her arm. A glutton who eats himself thin. Study the entrails; see the kite on the wind: incandescent flourish of Nothing.
Nothing is a gnawing behind the ear at skull central. Necrotic tissue sloughed by the side of the road. Ants feeding a writhing beetle to their young. Hiroshimites walking eyeless in a blasted landscape. Nothing is the worm at the centre of the rose.
But I also know the other side of Nothing: Memories of golden leaves falling layer upon layer and you swimming within them like a red fish. How I breathe your warm embrace and drink the smile of your face! You are a doe on the misty hill, merging with the milk on this page. And I, meeting you by streams in quiet places, am no more.
Today I have written about Nothing. But tomorrow…You.