Why you should write about nothing
Nothing
/ˈnʌθɪŋ/
pronoun: nothing; plural nouns: nothings
- not anything; no single thing.
- something of no importance or concern.
- (in calculations) no amount; nought.
Nothing.
Sometimes, it’s the ROI of the Muse’s whispers. The spiritual accomplishment of unresolved yawns and yearnings.
One writes about nothing, when at 6 A.M, the alarm bell brings to the fore the diligent unease of a deadline. The desk looks forward to the display of this morning-person’s long-awaited act of will.
Things can wait though. Even the sun is considering the day’s proposition, you see. Better hours await us. Let’s just reflect a little longer on our awareness of the subject, shall we?
The eyelids obey the resistance, until memory unearths an illuminating scrap of wisdom. A command from a master.
“The professional has learned better. He respects Resistance. He knows if he caves in today, no matter how plausible the pretext, he’ll be twice as likely to cave in tomorrow.” ~ Steven Pressfield
Nothing
It’s the bad debt of calling a spade, a spade. The etiquette of un-stilled fears.
One writes about nothing, when at 6:30 A.M, the plausibility of the said pretext makes an old demand: perfection.
The blank page borrows the cloak of a nightmare.
Another scrap appears.
“Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
dahlias.”
~ Federico Garcia Lorca
Nothing.
Sometimes, it’s the hedge of harmony. The ballad of empty breakfast nooks.
One writes about nothing, when one is aswirl in the timelessness of certain words, the mysterious collaboration of the eye and the ear, the soul and the memory. The burning inclinations. The sorties of anguish overthrowing the mundane.
This time, three scraps show up.
“All triumphs are invariably, to a greater or lesser extent, a species of tyranny.” ~ Annelisa Alleva
“Memories are card-indexes consulted and then put back in disorder by authorities whom we do not control.” ~ Cyril Connolly
“There’s a time for reciting poems and a time for fists. As far as I was concerned, this was the latter.” ~ Roberto Bolano
Nothing.
The torso of a vanity metric.
One writes about nothing, when at 6:45 A.M, the pen still refuses any obligation, and the procrastinating mind commends the re-reading of a fine book for inspiration.
The mind is a specialist. Its reputation for wandering is without peer.
“The mind is a machine that is constantly asking: What would I prefer? Close your eyes, refuse to move, and watch what your mind does. What it does is become discontent with that-which-is. A desire arises, you satisfy that desire, and another arises in its place.” ~ George Saunders
Nothing.
The kindness of the contents of a lost shoebox.
One writes about nothing, when one wonders what’s the point of anything as the world gets busy in the ungluing of flesh and spirit.
The jutted spine of a book seeks an attendant. It’s Patti Smith’s M Train. The very first sentence jigs, and punctures the mind’s anxious cloud.
“It’s not so easy writing about nothing.”
Nothing.
The keepsake of wonders.
One writes about nothing, when a realization accrues, that nothing holds the first footprints of everything.
Sentences, pixels, revolutions, and the squirrel next tree, whose grin has been at close quarters with Chris Rock’s this morning, all begin at nothing.
“Let the day pass. Know most instruments are hollow
which is how and why they sing. Don’t fill the void.
Lie awake with everything and anything.”
~ Emma Sedlak
