It's A Lonely World

It’s a lonely world. Everybody tries to hide it. But it’s there. The void. The question is: does the void exist? Or is it just a feeling? It’s difficult to say that the void exists, since there’s nothing material there, no dimension, nothing to measure, no time, no space, no nothing. Therefore, it doesn’t exist. But does it? Does it not exist? That dog don’t hunt either. Because the void has properties: it’s finite (otherwise there’d only be emptiness) & it’s a medium where interactions, fluctuations, indiscernible disturbances take place. Quantum particles flitter in & out of existence. Energies interact. Nothingness teems with perturbations. An atom can spontaneously emit light. Electric fields pulse. Nothingness is fertile in somethingness. But tell that to the guy walking down the street on a rainy night in lower Manhattan, or a woman weeping on a couch in San Francisco. Empty bottles of wine on the table. A wick spluttering in wax. What does the void matter to her? Are there quarks in her tears? Are there gluons in her hair? And who is this person I’ve invented? Maybe it’s me. We all assume various forms in our dreams. The whole gestalt is you, everything in the dream, you. The wallpaper. The furniture. The octopus eating cornflakes at your table. The void tonight is serving sturgeon. Word salad with pecan vinaigrette. Here. Have a bite. You eat it with your eyes. We’re sharing the void. Words love a void. They echo like items in a navy surplus store. Lewis Carrol trying on a pea coat in front of a mirror.