The void

That, which comes from the death of hope and anticipation

Photograph by Author

I was going to write a poem here. I almost did, even. Two quatrains down then bust. But honestly, I can’t seem to write poetry anymore. That feels amusing to me given how long ago I used to pride myself as a poet more than a writer - having written hundreds of poems in several languages. It wasn’t until two, three years ago that I really started writing proper prose - and I’ll still always have more poems than I have books of prose or essays to my name.

That being said, where does this piece start and where does it end? I can’t say for sure. I’m still only really blabbing on about non-sensical things.

So, right… where were we? Yes. The void. You’ve seen it yourself, haven’t you? Well, maybe you’ve felt it? That emptiness? Where things used to be. Maybe your gut used to turn and you used to abhor certain things. Maybe you used to feel - sometimes good, sometimes bad. The presence of feeling isn’t nearly as horrific. Absence is. To feel as though there isn’t anything left inside. Just… void. Null. You get through your day, without fail. Everyone expects you to. You do, too, remarkably. Not without its failings, but the day goes by somehow. But paradoxically, you can’t shake the feeling of unfeeling. Of profound, undeniable emptiness. Like a weight on your chest. It doesn’t seem to be any medical malaise. You can tell you’re not dying. But are you really alive?

Nights spent staring up at the ceiling, off into the distance. Staring into walls. Looking at approaching storms and wondering if they can wash you away. You step out into crowds, stand alone at crossroads, seek the heights, descend to the depths. But it doesn’t go away. No matter where you go, it doesn’t go away. It festers. It latches on and it doesn’t go (ironically, it might be more attached to you than anyone ever was - at least it stays). It never leaves. It is your involuntary companion.

I have my demons to torment my thoughts and tug away at the soul. These metaphorical beasts which bite away at sanity surely find kinship in this void. But the void is more poignant in some ways. One would reckon it has no personality. But surely, even the dark depths have enough to stare right back? Oh and they do. For better or for worse.

There used to be a time when one could write vast tomes. For much of my time as a “word-shaker” (as I was termed once), I have sought to channel vast amounts of raw human emotion into words with great success. The downside being, that the greatest volume comes with extreme, unimaginable amounts of anguish, loss, sorrow and heartbreak.

To paint with one’s own blood, makes a wonderful painting. Ask not of the process. Enjoy. Clap. Speak of how much you love this and whatnot. But don’t worry. The words are there for you to enjoy. There is no need to wonder as to where they came from. They are mine. Or perhaps they are merely what flows from the heart (and as they say, what comes fresh from the heart, is what comes from God). I like that view. After all, I don’t think I’m capable of writing. I think I’m just a fellow with a keyboard (an instrument I prefer because no one ever told me my handwriting was beautiful - quite the opposite, for most of my lifetime - print and digital leaves out that possibility) pouring through words that come spontaneously to the forefront of consciousness.

Now as my leg aches, and the sky outside seems to be colored grey such that I cannot differentiate if it is a storm or merely the early morning sky, I rest my (proverbial) pen.

I’ve already bored you, surely, with this oddly short piece. Ergo, I wish each of you who read, a beautiful day. A day without the things that burden you. Without the battles you never speak of. Without the pain and anguish that ever troubled you or does. I wish for each of you, joy. That is my wish. I hope you found something in my words. I will try to write more.

Thank you for reading.