SEPTEMBER
Once upon a time, upon a time of endless longing and loneliness, sat a rather sad and secluded soul, one lost in a world of nothingness and isolation. Here, it was thought, a newness might form from the emptiness, a something born from the airs of abandonment, an existence from malnourished sets of predicament.
'Perhaps chance has a clever way of sorting these types of things out,' she spoke to no one in particular; 'perhaps it is true that time does indeed heal all but the severest of wounds.'
And as this shattered soul sat against a most splintered tree, she wondered whether nothingness can possibly exist as a thing in of itself: if there was a possibility that an absence could be formed into an inclusiveness.
'If I am actually here — if I am actually a participant in what feels to be a voiding of truth — can I move in a certain direction? What I mean is, can I go in a forwardly way, can I be propelled in a reversal, may I reposition myself in relation to this stasis? Or must I imagine myself as merely a component of my own imagination, in that I am never actually anywhere at all?'
With the speaking of these questions to no one in particular, she found herself feeling slightly more lonely than she had in the moments before The Speaking of The Questions, and so she turned her interrogations inward, so that she was sure of recipient and would have receipt and docket of inquiry. She thought of what it meant to occupy space, to abuse and then expend energy for thought when within this supposed space, and what might become of this space once she had proof of expulsion. For it seemed to her that she might never actually know when she had in fact left, for she wasn't quite sure where she was now. Much of this seemed like glassy reflectiveness: for perhaps there was something to be seen on the other side of the glass' separation, but most of all she simply saw herself looking upon herself looking through the glass itself. This was something of a conundrum, she realized, and quickly became fond of the very notion: her own nonexistence might be proved by her very existence — and this all pointed towards a nicely bound solace. For if she truly wasn't present, if this was all some tortuous fantasy, it may very well lead to someone else awakening and shaking her from a misconceived, perceived, or fictive state.
She suddenly became overjoyed with the thought that she may cease to be without ever having actually been at all. That the anxiety over her own existence may have been nothing more than a way to while away the time whilst waiting for nothing at all. It was a nothingness born of nothingness destined to become nothingness with a colossal waste of sadness in between. With this clarity she then looked to her surroundings to see if there might be something else which could benefit from this awareness of purposelessness and found, not surprisingly, absolutely nothing at all.
