Scribes On Nothingness.

Nothing is me.

We are void. Senses are just unrequested extensions we are forced to sew into our being. I am nothing.

Yesterday, a wind blew on my cheeks sneakily, and this morning, the wind from a fan collided with the same tender flesh, yet both felt different, and yet they reminisce one another in a spark of memory. In between the two winds, I was never reminded of such sensation. My tongue spoke with my lips about other tingles I experienced, and my retina reflected different lights from different refractions, and I forgot of the twin winds. Other senses overtook the sensory memory I thought I buried in my consciousness. Where did it went? is it dormant like a cancer cell? waiting for the right//wrong conditions to align? Once it is in one horizon, everything similar to such experience ricochets in the mind, like undirected fireworks; they cross every sky and land the mind has and its explosions, sometimes, send tremors to my hands. For a while, I am something, and for a long moment after, I am nothing again.

I am nothing, yesterday, and tomorrow. A silhouette of me stands at the corner of my mind, an unnerving image, along with all the things it committed its destiny to, which I chose to selectively remember. I remembered yesterday I wounded my palm, holding a fall. It hurts, the pulsing irritation reminds me of all the pain that happened before yesterday, and it found a well in my eyes. I remembered yesterday, I saw a face I once admired from a distant past. I can’t remember the biography yet I remember the warmth and hope the face gave me, and yesterday I was reminded of it; something I have lost in which I hope was mine. Of tomorrow, I am not sure of everything my mind conjures today. There is no validation of my projection I fragment from my pasts, so it is as untrue as the passed clock-turn (since time is only true after its previous circle of hands). Therefore tomorrow is the absolute nothing, while yesterday is the nothing one experiences from loss.

Now, I am everything. The yesterday that did not happen, and all the tomorrow that might occur, is all nesting inside me in this moment. I have a thousand choice, stemming from a thousand dreams, forged from a thousand pain. Seeds that are waiting for the first rain of a flood, and the puddle that is waiting for the first sun. I feel it in my being; the vitality of thechest beating, the breath that escapes and returns to thelungs, and the movement of the body, with all the wind trembling every single hair on your self. These eyes that shone the way for my fingers to tap these isolated keys into stringed paragraphs that translates my incoherent thoughts and emotions; to be is to put the parted pieces of ourselves together, and become one existence.

A void will always cause a surge into its chasm, filling it up for a moment, until it returns to nothing again; as nothing is permanent, so does nothing itself, is ever-lasting.

To feel nothing, and then to feel everything; humans are only gifted with the facility of feeling, but not the control of it. Swinging from either ends, or to feel the tranquility in between, to be in equilibrium; a longed briefness, we are neither nothing nor everything, we are only mirrors.

My dusty mirror have been deceiving me, convincing me of my nothingness. When You arrive in my line of reflection, I am the illuminating sun, lighting up the room I am imprisoned to.

Now this vessel shall cast no shadow; just me and You.