Nothing To Write About

Nothing to write about:

there’s always nothing to write about — and this is my great reassurance, that inspiration is present to my attention, and my only role is to notice that everything appears directly from the void, emptiness allowing ideas to form and find themselves as words given to a page. Nothing is ever missing, spaciousness provides in the immediacy of its need, and if anything seems absent now than it’s simply not the time for its appearance. Trust and patience are virtues to a writer and these lend themselves to having faith in the holiness of a pause, words not missing but forming from the void, arriving in their perfect way. I have faith in the emptiness of this moment, there is no need for the rush of words.

everything appears from nothing.

it’s in this way that words find me, my faith rewarded in fulfillment of a page. There’s always nothing to write about after all, mystery, of how words appear so magically from absolutely nowhere. Truly, is there anything more exciting than this to consider? My own beginning was once as emptiness as that start of this page, not even an idea present, nothing. If I existed at all it was as pure potentiality, particles swirling as a later promise of my form, DNA from an ancient line of ancestors longing to be expressed. But really, just emptiness, void, until…I…am…now.