Sharing my nothing with you.
It is true that in some sense everything we own on this earth falls under a degree of vanity. Our entire social image and projections of ourselves are composed with or without our consent to inform an opinion about us.
We could lie and say how we don’t care about these things but in some sense we either work against the narratives said of us or for them, protecting them, upholding them. From a distance, I may give off an air of abundance as I wax on about my endeavours, contently caring for my patch of nothingness as I chase my dreams of something more. From a distance, it would all seem grandiose to speak of long days working on so much when in reality I have learnt to live for the small wins, the simple things, to appreciate clean air in a world of so much pollution. My ideologies may even make me seem delusional, as I envision a world either blunter to what it is, or more skewered to what I wish it was. All of this, leading up to a mind that thinks greatly about a great many things seeking answers.
I do not however claim full responsibility for any opinions formed of me, as they are not all lent by my actions or inactions as they are a mirror of my observer’s eye. I am merely a man seeking to be shown the same level of wild open-minded curiosity as I am open to giving the world, learning from it, growing with and yet sometimes against it.
In a vast world of a great number of opinions, we are hard-pressed to appear as interesting as we can be, and no one can blame us, as our very survival sometimes leans on this appeal. Without it, we would succumb to being just another unopened door, uncharted island left untouched for all its attachments of Palm Trees and whitewashed sands.
The world is a lonely place when there’s no one to share your bit of nothingness with. For all the splendour of the great plenty we either amass or die trying to, there is a void for all of us waiting to be filled, discovered, shared.
To look in the mirror, seeing the most jagged, broken, imperfect parts of ourselves where we are without doubt insecure, inadequate, and hold on to contentment with the eye to care for, tend to our patch of nothingness amid all the reasons to denounce our lives in search of an escape is a feat braver than we know. The doors with the keys hardest to share are those to the blunt screams of all that we hide in shame, and fear of judgement even though these are the sides above all that we clamour for understanding and sometimes help.
Whether we’re a “great" mighty ruler waxing on years as our dictatorship wages on, or a school girl dragging her feet discovering the first pains of womanhood renewed like a monthly subscription, the gravity of our realities takes on a more beautiful shape when perhaps in our unspoken agonies we are understood.
And so it goes on, another day wagering our bets, staking our claims, making bids for a share of each other’s nothingness, hoping that the allure of all of the things that precede our image from the outside looking in makes us approachable, respectable, desirable, lovable, tolerable, and able to pull a great response from our hushed tones and unspoken nuances.
All we can do sometimes, is to hope, that the truth to the things residing in our deepest crevices of existence are deemed worthy first by us in a manner that we can in some way be content, and then by others to be truly worth sharing.