Sometimes when this place gets kind of empty
Sound of their breath fades with the light
Sometimes I look at the space around me and all I see is that it is empty. I see a chair, a bed, a modern-art print on the wall. Through the window I see cars on the street and people sitting on their balconies. If I were to punch a hole through this apartment wall, a family of three would look up from their dining room table. But I see all this and take it in as empty.
The faces of the people, the sounds of their living, the things they make and break – everything is empty. I don’t know the full reason for this, but I suspect it has something to do with my new reality of not being sure of what I’m perceiving, not being sure of what lies behind life. I’ve always been certain of at least something. I’ve always been sure of what drives life forward. But now my list of certainties shrinks every month, every week, every day.
What dramatic statements. And they’re not completely true. There are still things I am certain of, things whose sureness becomes more firm as other things that used to be facts to me waver between being concrete matter and almost-ghosts: