I could have been the best writer of your generation,
The better of a bad time;
I could have imagined things no one dared; in languages borrowed from the future.
Or I could have written things everyone imagined,
But no one wrote.
But I never wanted to be.
There wasn’t that ambition in place.
All there was, was the desire to ride the waves of a wrong time.
Away and towards all the indefinites one could conjure.
It wasn’t a lack of ambition.
It was an ambition to be nothing.
Nothing is not easy.
What nothing is, is nothing.
Nor the still air preceding a storm.
Nothing is teleology;
The redundance of language,
Nothing is what nothing is:
I want to be nothing.
The space at the end of each word,
The silence between conversations,
The excuse of secret thoughts,
The reality of a mischief,
The darkness at the end of it all,
(Only because there’s no one to see)
Remember the words on a blank page?
The pictures that filled a blank canvas?
The air that brushed your face on a windless night?
I am that.
I am the dirty secret of all the family albums,
The undefined toddler,
Prodigal in nothingness
But despised, now.
Anything could be,
Stripped of the bright blue cot.
I am not the writer I could have been,
Or a person worth being.
I am, but, the end of a thought,
The end of a civilization.
Pursuing destruction with a detached duty.
I am also what stands at the end of its fall.