I built a table, out of wood. I made a thing that wasn’t there before. I cut and sanded the wood, I drilled in screws, and now we have a table where we didn’t have one before. It is real and solid and you can touch it, you can feel where I cut poorly, see the rough edges where I didn’t join the wood correctly, you can lift it, feel its weight. It is a real thing that I made. I made a table.
This is not a table, this is a nothing, a series of random thoughts that I had in the shower, which is where thoughts come from.
What if our souls are soap bubbles, what if we spread ourselves too thin, stretched out and flattened? What happens when it pops, would you even notice, would you even care?
What if we are meant for something more?
I am already behind schedule this year I’ve got work to do, I have things to accomplish, friends ask me questions ask for favors and all I say is yes yes yes and-
What is this? What am I hoping to do here writhing
I meant to write “writing” but I accidentally wrote writhing and I think I’m just going to leave it that way. It fits, somehow.
What am I hoping to do here, writing these things for a mysterious audience? You are there; I can see my counter going up, I know you are reading, but who are you? Why do you come here?
I imagine this place to be a library, ancient wood and warm soft light, leather bound tomes that nobody will ever read, I imagine myself sitting, speaking to ghosts. What does it look like to you?
This is a nothing, I know it, but I have written nothing for so long, what was I hoping for?
We are spread so thin, our souls are a thin sheen stretched and pulled so far, distended, breached and ruptured. Our souls are a soap bubble.
My friend said he tried to sell his soul, but nobody wanted it, it was too worn out, too soiled for anyone to want. I said souls aren’t ours to begin with. You cant sell something that doesn’t belong to you. He said he sold a stereo that belonged to his older brother to a neighbor once for seven dollars. Fair point.
Sometimes, when it is very cold, and your battery is weak, when you go to start your car, it turns over slowly at first, then it loosens up a little. Then it turns faster and faster and then the spark takes or something, I don’t know, but the car starts, it runs and then you can go on your way. If it’s very, very cold, and your battery is weak, when you go to start the car it goes rrrrrrrrrr RRR_RRR-RRR-RRRRRRRR-RR-R-rrrrr click click click click and you know that you’re not going anywhere without a jumpstart. You are going to need another car, another battery, to get you rolling along.
I don’t know what this is, and I hope it’s the first thing, but I fear it’s the second thing, and I don’t have the means for a jump; I don’t have cables, I don’t have any friends. But I know that I won’t go anywhere if I stay in the house, if I don’t even turn the key. If I never try, I’m not going to go anywhere. I will never go anywhere if I don’t try, at least.
What if I spread my bubble soul too thin and it popped and I was too distracted to even notice?
What am I hoping to do here? Why are you here reading this?
What are we doing here? This is what is whispered on wet parted lips before plunging into dangerous forbidden destructive desire. What are we even doing here?
This is a nothing thing, I know, it’s not a table, it’s not a real thing; this is a click-scan-what-the-hell-was-that-forget immediately kind of thing. I know this, but I have to try, I have to go out into the cold and see if the spark takes, because I’m not going anywhere here all warm in the house.
I tried to sell my soul, I had a buyer, username Devil6969 from Craigslist, but I looked and I couldn’t find it. It is probably lost in the garage maybe, or under all these dirty clothes, or sunk in the sink under the dishes. It’s probably mashed under the couch cushions with the cookie crumbs and the spare change. That’s fine anyway because I wanted fortune and fame, but if he offered me a small plot of land in the forest instead, I probably would have taken it.
What if we are spread too thin, what if all these words are a soap bubble, what if nothing means anything, what if all I know is a lie?
And this is stupid, a thousand nothing words, none of them mean anything, but maybe one of you mysterious folk needs a jumble of nonsense to get you over the hump, to get you to the weekend and to your Super Bowl snacks. Ghosts still eat snacks, right?
So get out there and pick up your pen, your brush, boot up the computer. Start your Yoga video, put down the donuts and pick up the celery, grab that old dusty guitar. You might not go anywhere, maybe you might need a jump. You might make a nothing like I did here, but maybe it’s the first thing, maybe the spark takes and you are able to get on your way. Maybe you make something real, maybe you build a table. The only way to find out is to go out and turn the key. Because you aren’t going anywhere all warm in the house, that’s for sure.
This is a nothing, a soap bubble, a whisper, a stolen breath. This is a nothing, but hell, even this is something, I guess.
Still (kinda) Writing,
So you mysterious folk, hit me up here if you like, or email me at dissent . within at gmail.com. I’m still on a social media hiatus, because you people are all crazy, so I’m not seeing your messages there if you’re sending them to me. I hope all is well in your corners of the world. All is well in mine. Peace.