Emptiness has become another arm for me. One that is active, so much so as the two have ever been. Not sure what I could grab with the hand that the emptiness holds but the lines in my hands that I am convinced don’t really hold meaning at all. There’s an apocalypse rummaging itself inside of me, without really understanding which part of my body it should tear apart first. Just one by one, I feel my veins pulling away slowly.
I’m just this box.
I’m open, I am empty, and I have always refused to be labeled as “fragile” because I figured that if I were to be broken, there must have been a reason I was dropped in the first place, and you know, mistakes happen.
“What am I doing, talking, having my figments talk, it can only be me. Spells of silence too, when I listen, and hear the local sounds, the world sounds, see what an effort I make, to be reasonable. There’s my life, why not, it is one, if you like, if you must, I don’t say no, this evening. There has to be one, it seems, once there is speech, no need of a story, a story is not compulsory, just a life, that’s the mistake I made, one of the mistakes, to have wanted a story for myself, whereas life alone is enough.”—Samuel Beckett- Texts For Nothing #4
“As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty green iron table, saying: “If the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden…” I decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might be collected, and I concentrated my attention with careful subtlety to this end.”—T.S Eliot- Hysteria.