A conversation one’s heart might have with paper

And so it said ‘good evening.’

                And in slumber did my heart reach out to hear the words being spoken. To feel it in darkness, darkness that wasn’t truly darkness but perhaps incomprehension. For even though it saw all that could be seen, a heart did not have eyes.

                who are you?

                Thus there was silence, and my heart, now conscious beside a sleeping mind, felt out once more to hear the voice. Feeling out with hands that could not feel, and limbs that could not touch, only thought, though it was a thought that wasn’t a thought at all; for it was sparsely enough to be called the echo of an afterthought.

                will you listen to me?

                But as it seemed, the voice had gone silent, and the echo of an echo of an echo resounded, all alone, in the unconscious of the night. Forward did it step into an abyss of which it did not belong, though only to pause and withdraw in fear or caution, so such an instinctual thing that could actually exist without being fear, nor caution…or even instinct.

                then shall you speak?’

                The voice came up, as if floating on a breeze that could not exist, a sound pulled from a faraway memory. It lingered and waned, a certain pulsating presence that wasn’t rigid in any sense, as if it were composed with incoherent whispers, whispers of thousands. The contrasting parallels thus reached out for one another, each a voice of their own, a clash of nonexistence upon nonexistence, mixing slowly in the subconscious.

                I am alone.’

                Then how might I hear you?’

                My heart pulled back, a distortion, ripples playing across the dark field through which their endless, and seemingly unfounded conversation could commence. But nonetheless would the absent force move back to greet the other, and the two would touch once more.

                I am hurting.

                I am lonely.

                So am I.’

                In the stillness, there was then a further sense of nothingness, a certain break in the break of continuum. Though the disembodied voice would then stir the darkness.

                ‘Though you are not alone.’

                And my heart could only ponder and debate, twist and work the words, though in its entirety there had been nothing to wonder about, nor any words to be decoded, nor any conscious being to undo them. There was only a vague inkling of perception, though a state other than perception, an entirely different plane from logic or being, though enough to shock my heart into enough that in a human state it would be called understanding.

                Why do you hurt so?’

                ‘Nothing is here. Nothing is right. Nothing solid in my grasp…nothing to hold on to.’

                ‘And yet here you are, and you are being held.’

                My heart would reply, ‘though held by what? I am but hovering, with nothing, there is nothing.’

                ‘though from nothing do you come, and from nothing do you wish for something to be created. Why do you hurt?’               

                ‘Because I long…I want…I wish… though so such things are beyond me, and though this is, I am not, and I shall not be.’

                ‘Who is to say, my friend?’

                And my heart reached out with longing for the voice that did not exist, as if for the first time feeling something that could truly be present there at the great void in which it roamed. A whisper, but a whisper, a softened, softened cry, it was nothing to anyone. It was not, and could not, be real…though my heart reached out for it without a single worry for reality there on that plane of dark nonexistence. There in the dead of the night there was a struck fervent passion to a now throbbing, subconscious state; that of my surreal, independent heart.

               I wish to love and be loved. I wish to feel, and be felt alongside. Though I am but nothing, and you are but nothing.’

                ‘So we are nothing together, my friend.’ The state reached out, as if to caress the absence, to comfort the still panic of my heart. ‘And in this, can there not also be love?’

                ‘Can there?’

                ‘Yes…there can, my friend. My love.’

               my love,’ my heart would repeat, to echo the echo, and resound the resounding voice there in the still of the night. ‘my love.’

                ‘Though what might you call this love, as I listen, and you speak, and I wish dearly to hear what you speak. As together we speak…and together here, in this nothingness…’

                My heart finally there grabbed hold of the other being, and held it close. There was a stir there, in the void, a pulse, rippling waves that were not at all, and both closed their unseeing sight to the world. Nothing collapsed onto nothing, and the two silent murmurs folded unto each other into a quiet that was beyond that of anything else, a hushed sense of calm, enduring in the darkness.

                Here in this nothingness,’ said the voice once more, swirling gently.

                there is something.’

                ‘For nothing can be nothing, my friend, my love, for I am here, and you are not alone,’

                ‘We are not alone.’

                ‘And so you might wish, my friend, and I will listen, and I will hope it shall come true for you. And I may hope and pray that you shall not be lonely, and feel that which you feel.’

                ‘For that is love.’

                ‘yes that is love.’

                ‘Love can be nothing?’


                ‘but how could that be…?’

                There was a twinkling there in the nothingness, and my heart leapt a moment as the silent words came through once more, ‘love can be anything, my friend, and anything can be nothing. But only you can decide…what it is.’

                And it then reached out, enveloping my heart in an embrace that stilled it all, sending a wave of solitude through the darkness, and shattering all that had been. And my heart receded once more, from nothing to nothing, and swirled dormant beside the mind from which it had parted, and the voice pulled away.

                And then I woke, my eyes seeing nothing, my mind remembering nothing, and I reached out my hand to feel…but nothing. My eyes closed once more, and my fingers grasped the absence before me, caressing what had been, though I did not know what had been, until finally in the nothingness did my fingers come across the one, solitary sheet. And in the darkness did I fumble for an implement, and I grasped it in my fingers, and without seeing, without knowing, there in my subconscious, and there did I write it.

                good evening.’

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed