Now I have told you all about me. Now I have nothing more to give. Now I’m naked and open. Empty and tired. I have nothing more to tell. For nothing happened in the time after I finished. There is nothing new to report that you would not also have shared with me. I have no new thoughts to unfold. None other than these. Where I tell you that there is nothing. Nothing about me. Nothing further has happened in my life, because right now my life operates only around this moment and this idea that there is nothing more.
The commitment to writing occurs. The commitment is important, surely. But even if I did not write, I’d think it. Thinking that there is nothing to think about and it does not matter sharing. And yet, I share it with you now. The news that there is nothing to tell or talk about.
There is also no feeling. Emptiness is the closest I can get to a feeling. If it even is a feeling and not just emptiness, indifference. But indifference is blurred in the idea of enshrining it and then do it. So it may well not be entirely unimportant. I write down my feeling of emptiness, describe the emptiness with empty words and empty my mind and head – if any is left, that is.
Even now it looks good on paper. There is a rhythm and a balance in the words, the order and the length of the sentences. It gives me a hint of satisfaction in the middle of the emptiness. Sleep is the only thing that can fill the hole now. Sleep will let the subconsciousness feel, think and act. Not me. And yet me. At least I do not have to decide on it. Maybe not before tomorrow.
There is no more of me. There ought to be if you want to read on. Know more. Lured to know more. But there is no more. So I have told you what I could tell. That there is no more. It is not doom or death in the end. Also not an end, for there was not any beginning. Only a sentence that you will soon forget. For I did not say it. I never said it. I only thought it – and then wrote it down when you were gone. Therefore, you will not read this. You will never know of what I had nothing more to give. Only I did not give anything when you were there. I have given nothing, shared nothing. Only established that I can write about this; I can take action from our meeting. That I can write something about nothing or nothing about something. But this is ultimately unimportant in the long run. You will never see it anyway. It will be immortalized in the moment of committing it to paper and one day disappear into nothingness. It gives me a barren feeling of indifference.
Especially when I puncture this sentence with a period.