“A tornado flew around my room
before you came
excuse the mess it made
it usually doesn’t rain in,
- Frank Ocean, thinking about you
Increasingly, I’m finding home within myself.
Of course this doesn’t mean that the home wasn’t there already – perhaps more that I didn’t recognize it as home. The place I had come to live in had become increasingly unknown to me. Perhaps it is because too many people had made it their own.
Perhaps it is because I had given it away to too many people.
Perhaps it is because I didn’t recognize a concept as something that can be crowded, be messy, be destroyed.
Perhaps it is because in the pursuit of my goal I lost sight of its meaninglessness.
The caricature that has been invented to fill this space in the narrative performs an action that demonstrates we perceive them as knowledgeable. After a slight pause, we assume for emphasis, but caricatures don’t think, let alone speak.
“Consider zero. What is it? I mean really try and pin it down. When you speak of nothing, what are you speaking of? You really can’t say the absence of a thing, because for an absence to be recognized it must been seen in opposition to the thing that was there before the absence.
Absence has a past.
Nothing, meanwhile, is weightless.
Nothing never was, nor will it ever be. Nothing is just nothing.
Yet, from this nothing do all things come forth. In the absence of nothing – what is there? Nothing can’t be absent. Nothing can’t be or can’t not be.
Zero just is. And it is the impossibility of zero that makes it the most important number in existence. Drop a zero from a million and it becomes a hundred thousand, give it a zero and it becomes ten million.
It is what it is”
In losing it’s meaninglessness I destroyed myself bearing the weight of meaning and substance. And those that came through perused, looking for whatever aspects of meaning they could piece together for themselves.
But a museum is no place to live.