Nothing- the secret mother of fears, the thing that makes our hearts crash down to the floor, the thing we rush in a frenzy to deny -without stopping even for a second because if we stop…hush…it’s alive. Larger than everything we know or make to believe, it is what aches between dull noise of a workday and what’s real, in the silence between two slow drops in the shower, between each mouthful while dining alone and reading yesterday’s newspaper. Nothing- stored for access in leaves, time, fungi and the ways of the world.
Something -the mountain we muster only so that there’s a breath of anticipation, a moment of loss, a pang of fear between us and the great, forever, latent undercurrent of nothing. It is a soft, masochistic play to get by, to become fools, to get lost, to do much ado about nothing.