I probably compliment you too often, I don’t want my words to lose their value. I want them all to be worth something to you. So here’s some light honesty.

When you write, you go forth with a net of brilliance, and catch thousands of brilliant creatures, while I sit in my rowboat and wait for the right fish to drift by. I’m really not sure we can judge who prepares them better since we’re both vegetarian now, but I think the ingredients are what truly matter, and you certainly have a larger variety.

When you write, you remind of a hurricane. You blow through with ferocity, and nothing looks the same when you’re finished. The best I can hope to do is lay one or two bricks on the foundation of my work today, maybe I’ll get more done tomorrow.

When you write, you remind me of an architect. Your creations are expansive, and beautiful, and I could get lost exploring the corridors for days. I am glad that despite this, you can still see the effort I put in to building my humble shack. It brings me a lot of joy when you leave your palace, and join me for tea here.

It hurts when you realise you don't want him anymore. You want to want because you're used to him, you like him, he's a great person... You can have a hundred reasons to want to want him again but it's not gonna happen.

Everything you hate doing, feelings you don't want to face, conversations you don't want to have ... mowing the lawn, unloading the dishes. You hate doing it until you actually start doing it. You hate the idea of breaking up with someone until you do it. Then a month spent skipping all the sad songs, trying to keep yourself busy. Laughter helps, sex helps. You can't let your guard down, stay strong. Stop thinking, focus. Yes, you're going home to none, to your silent home with plants and a loud TV. You'll do fine. No matter what happens, you'll always do fine.

Then, in the pitch darkness, a part of you feels free. I can buy a plane ticket right now, I can do anything I want. Relationships tie us down even if we don't realise. You're sweetly bound to a home, to a mortgage, to the animals you've adopted together, to the plans you've made. The food you need to finish before it goes bad, concert tickets bought months ago, laundry, when was the last time we visited the parents... They all tie you with the thinnest threads. You end up in a cacoon in no time. You find peace in it but you can't move your limbs.

The moment you let go, you feel like a cloud. Empty like a long silence. But free. Free like clouds. Imagine, you can do anything you want to. But still empty. For a long time, you'll make coffee for two and drink one.

When I see him, I want to say something but I'm never sure what. Something that makes us special. Something that will help me swallow the knot in my throat. I want to want to hold his hand, but I don't. There's nothing to say.

I want to want him.

I don't want him.

There's just something about nothing

It is an oxymoron

Because nothing does exist it is something

Nothing is space

A void

But everything is made of something

We just cannot see it

Or we simply deny it

Nothing has a colour

Nothing has mass

Nothingness is as real as you and I

It is made of the same elements as everything around it

Nothing is as real as it is unreal

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