Nothing and Something

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
a monologue about who you are, who I am, and what there is between you and me.

Submitted: July 11, 2008

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Submitted: July 11, 2008

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It doesn’t matter what other people think. That’s what everyone tells me. Except that these “Other-People” that I am talking to are actually included in “Everyone”. I mean this “Everyone” is included in the mass of “Other People”. The scary thing about these “Other people” is that they consist of millions of small “everyone’s”. Just like the headshot of some criminal on the newspaper; when you look closely enough, you see that the face is nothing but combinations of colourful dots.

I write in similes and metaphors. I like abstract examples of my abstract ideas. I never have practical ideas. That is my problem. It is cloudy today and the sky is somewhat yellow, which is supposed to be my favourite colour, which is supposed to make me unconditionally happy. For some reason this yellow is all against me, and I can’t stand the fakeness of it. It is not a nice feeling to hate something, because I instantly think of these “Other-People” that might hate me also. Yet among these “Other-People” stems “Everyone”, or was it the other way around, who tells me “IT DOESN’T MATTER”.

What doesn’t matter, I do not know. Nothing turns into something where I have no control of, when there are also occasions when I yearn for the “Nothing” to turn into “Something”, which never will and I know it. It is all nonsensical. It is no nonsense but it is nonsensical because it is all in the past and it is all in my head, and I am happy to say that I can finally get over the fact that “Something” has returned itself to “Nothing” again, without feeling bitter and old about it. I do feel happy that we did have a brief moment of “Something” and that I have found the “Something” in the “Someone-else” of these “Other-People” again.

The Nothing I am talking about here, the Nothing that I call nonsense is somewhat different from the “Nothing”. It is exactly the Nothing that truly is nothing, which was stolen from me and twisted by the fanatic poets who added Something to it and turned it into an oxymoron. “Nothing is a sign of Something that hasn’t happened yet”. The emptiness fills the room and I wonder if that’s a contradiction. The room is filled with emptiness. The world is full of hunger. The world is far too big to accommodate these miniature houses.


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