It’s the idle hours that scare the most, those which give way to thoughts which, while idle, go down a predictable path: you’ve been down this road before, and it’s never turned out well. That thing (with full awareness of the word’s implication of an existence/presence, when it could just easily be an absence), empty but heavy. Unnamed, for to name it would be presumptuous, so you say you’re tired, and when they ask why, you say you don’t know (which answer is, at its most essential sense, true, even if the one preceding it only half so).
It’s the quiet which makes the voices come out, to ask you why you think you are even half the worth you ascribe to yourself, to jeer at your folly for doing so. You were lucky for the past twenty or so years, don’t think you will be as lucky in the days to come. What is all of this, anyway, but a string of encounters that you live through, or don’t, because to survive is to change.
It’s the spaces that you fill with lines and shapes: drab little things, but moving, playing nevertheless, as the separation of space is definite, if not tangible; as if, to say that we are nothing but a billion infinitesimal little sparks whose struggle is staying together/whole, because to subscribe to the contrary would be to accept that we are no different from the space surrounding us, that nothing begets nothing, and the reason why we have been so fascinated with magic is because of its penchant for fooling us into thinking that something can come out of nothing, and that that very same something can become nothing, when the world has taught us otherwise.