I find all too often I end up here once again. *blink, blink, blink, blink*. It seems to me that no matter how hard I try I can’t escape the void, the necessity to fill the nothingness with somethingness. For nothing can escape the sheer lack of everything, not even light can escape the immense pull of a black hole. Time and space warped to adapt, adjust, admonish the anomaly. I am no different for I am a part of the eternity of time and the infinity of space. At least that is what it feels like to me, like the nature of nothing is its hunger for something. Every time I’m here it calls to me, in whispers of silence, so ineluctable, asking me to break it, like the universe’s subtle plea to reset, restore, revive. For the amorphous void of nothing wants to be destroyed so it makes it as easy as a thought. It is through a thought that we create something out of nothing, but a thought is like the silence, impermanent and fleeting, quickly destroyed like the delicate structure of a dandelion, blown away with even the softest sigh. So, in an act of preservation, it beseeches me to portray it. That is the nature of thought, a secular prayer, a query to the matrix and I the search engine respond. For only through the act of concretely defining a thought are we able to make a thought into a reality. Without definition a thought will return from which it came... nothing. For whom am I to change the nature of a thing?

The pen has the ability to weave together the illusive thread that constructs the fabric of reality for which we can experience. Therefore, making communication the most powerful tool known to man because there was nothing and then there was something and it said let there be light and so there was. So, I scribble and dash, rapidly, frantically, desperately trying to create the light in the darkness, the hope in desolation, the life in oblivion before the lines and squiggles divulge into meaningless convictions, like they always have been. Yet, it seems to me the more I do it the longer it takes for it to disintegrate as entropy demands of it, so I come to this place whenever I can to try and defy the laws of the universe to create something out of nothing. Just as the Universe rapidly expanded into everything that is, a thought rapidly expands into an idea – the spark for anything new. For whom am I to change the nature of a thing?

I feel like nothing makes sense. My understanding of the world is just like physics, a model. There are no forces, there are no fields, it’s all just stuff we make up to feel like we understand, to feel like we can predict what will happen next, to fill in the space that is the unknown. So, I stare so desperately into this emptiness and like diffusion the lack of draws in everything even the things that I would like to stay in – side. I can’t stop it, it hurts to hold in, like a wild animal caged desperate for its freedom because the wilderness, the wildness is part of who they are and to constrict, to restrict, to refrain, is to go against its very nature so it begs to be set free, it claws, it scratches, it whines, and so I do because whom am I to change the nature of a thing?

It is with its release that it is allowed to flourish into what it was meant to be and then it starts making sense to me, but I am so naive, my standard model is so flawed. It tells me that gravity doesn’t exist, it cannot be explained, yet every time I jump, a leap of faith, I fall back down to the reality that none of it makes sense to me. So, I keep on scripting, I keep on reading, I keep on learning because I want to understand but… nothing makes sense to me. For that is the nature of intelligence seeking to see the answers to questions that cannot be? For whom am I to change the nature of a thing?

Oh... how I desperately want these squiggles to mean something. Maybe then it has a reason for it to be the thing that fills the abyss, for it to break the will of a thought to return from which it came, off to the ether to be discovered by another explorer of vacuity, but I can’t let it slip away, because I want to know. I want to make sense of what I don’t, to create stories that express what can only be accessed through an experience. To encapsulate that which cannot be explained into something that one can feel. For whom am I to change the nature of a thing?

So here is my gift to all of you, or maybe it’s a curse, the nonsensical ramblings of a person who has no reason to say these words, a person who has no reason to share this with all of you, but it feels like such a waste to throw a creation so filled with the empty space from which it came to be, like a bubble gently caressing that which we cannot be held, but is needed to survive. It feels like such a waste to let wither and rot that which somehow took something so intangible into something that feels so real. Although it may not be wanted, I will give it to all of you. For the nature of such a prose is to share it from one to the brains of a few, but even if there are no one to, share all of these strange sounds, I must set it free to roam throughout out the space under this dome, because I will write if there is no one to see it, I will write if there is no one to hear it, I will write if there is no one to feel it, because I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t send it to all of you because that is the nature of me and that’s nothing new. For whom am I to change the nature of a thing?