I once read a poem.

It was about nothing.

Then I started to think hard.

What is ‘nothing’?

Not sure how many people have thought that.

I guess I don’t really care.

Nothing had to be something.

Then I wrote.

I slowly wrote everything.


It was everything then it was nothing.

It was something before it was everything.

It was nothing before it was something.


What is it?

What will it be in two hundred years?


But I wasn’t done thinking.

I thought even more.

I thought about the word ‘nothing’ and ‘me’.

I continued to write.


If nothing then something.

If something then everything.

If everything then nothing.

‘It’ equals ‘nothing’.”


“Remember that,” I told myself.


“Because ‘it’ defines me.

Because ‘it’ shapes me.

Because ‘it’ will always be me.


But then I erased it all and wrote again.


“What is ‘it’ exactly?

What defines me?

What shapes me?

What moves me?”


I was beyond baffled.



It is the great nothing.

The great everything.

The great something.

The great knowledge of knowing nothing.

That everything is still there to be known.

That there is something worthwhile.”


I wrote down everything.

Finally I wrote.




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