Friday, September 11, 2009

Nothing.

have you ever wondered about Nothing? about how as a race, we simply cant deal with it?
we create mountains out of molehills, and live in ivory towers. and all the while, introspect and reflect, and think and think and think. we simply cant deal with voids, mental or emotional. blankness is always negative. negative spaces, as certain people reiterate. so why are negative spaces such a bad thing? canvases have balanced landscapes, still life's always are centred, always carefully "composed". posters and book jackets and curtain patterns are all beautifully thought out, right down to each set of perfectly aligned four corners of the repeat pattern. and negative spaces are a no no. and the same goes for each of our lives. nothing is always filled with something, if nothing else but thoughts about what could possibly fill it.
when we lose someone, all we can do is think and think and think about why we lost them. why they did that to themselves. why the world did that to them. we think of all the possible reasons, all the problems, and all the other people who will be suffering.
what that person left was a void. a blankness. in the lives of each and every person who was aware of her existence. She made seven hundred people cry for her, and at least two hundred let it affect them enough to be upset for more than a few hours. she broke all of our hearts, simply by not existing anymore. but why did our blank eyes fill up with tears, and our insides suddenly fill up with a strangely heavy foamy feeling that we cant get rid of even now?
how can she not exist anymore? we cant deal with nothing. we will fill the nothing with something or the other, even if all that we can find to fill it with is tears. because when anything beautiful ceases to exist, whether it is a torn up painting, a lost scrap of though that just doesn't come back, or even something as fragile and beautiful as a human being, we will feel the Nothing. its strange how Nothing seems close enough to almost be tangible sometimes, a wisp of a concept, that brushes our subconscious, but slips away, and to make ourselves believe that it was Something, and it was there, we fill it with scraps of anything that is at hand. the glass, whether half full or not, is still never empty. because beautiful things, even when they become nothing, exist as a concept, if such a crude word could be used. and beautiful things, however distant they were when they existed, become what we need them to become to us once they do not. they become a source of grief, a source of learning, a source of pain, a source of conversation if nothing else.
what she didnt know is that nothing is worth becoming Nothing, because once you choose to do that, you become whatever everyone else wants you to be. you become shaped by fragments of other peoples possessions and memories, and exist as nothing but a blurry Picasso style mosaic, with your nose on your chin and your heart plastered on your forehead.

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