I am afraid to be nothing.
The nothing is me, my totality and disintegration, or maybe it is just a feeling.
I call the feeling ‘nothing’ not because I am deep or French but because there is no word for becoming a whale and then dissolving.
Let’s call the feeling nothing1.
There is another kind of nothing, we’ll call it nothing2.
This nothing is a cinematic nothing, more tactile than the first, a black vacuum, a gooey void, memelike, the French one.
I have no relationship with nothing2, because it has rejected me, though sometimes I pretend to be well-versed in nothing2.
I speak as though nothing2 is a close friend, an ally, has me on its list.
I do this so as to appear deep.
I want to appear deep, because i do not feel like enough of a something.
The act of striving to appear deep, the hope that I might convince someone of my depth, feels like a something.
It feels like a punch in the nothing1.
There is no punch in the nothing1.
You cannot fake friendship with the nothing1.
There are blankets you can wrap around the nothing1.
Then the blankets dissolve with you.