So many missings
Yet no one notices
All the empty spaces
That outnumber the things that are
Like a spider web,
We walk along thin strands of existence
Colossal gaps on either side
We could fall
Oh so far
So far down through nothing
But we pretend not to see them
Perhaps we’ve pretended so long
We really believe it
Have we really convinced ourselves?
That this narrow strand is all there is?
All there should be?
This narrow strand is the whole wide world
And the emptiness was never full
It never should be
There is no emptiness
That chasm that people fall into
Does not exist
They haven’t gone
They’re here
What a nice thought that is,
That no one is gone
We’ll think instead of looking
If we think they’re there,
They might as well be
We content ourselves
With the thought of their presence
They never fell into emptiness
There is no emptiness


Writing Rubbish

I wish I had the courage to sit down and just write pages of rubbish. I wish I could unchain my heart and hands and let them say what they pleased, without my mind over-analyzing whether or not it would be worth the while.

I wish I didn’t worry about what sort of things it might do to my reputation. Not even my public reputation, but merely the way I see myself.

Once something is down, it’s like a piece of me has been extracted for a biopsy of sorts. After inspection and analysis, I conclude whether or not I am adequate. If what I see upon inspection is a load of rubbish, I am quite convinced that I am a load of rubbish and consequently, anything I do will be rubbish.

Therefore, I must hesitate every time I put a pen to paper and ask myself whether or not what I want to say will prove that I am worthless as a writer. If I am unsure that I will be able to make something worth reading, I am loath to write it.

It’s ridiculous.

I know this full well.

I must endeavor to break down this physiological barrier that keeps me back.