Empty

I don't feel like writing today
But I write, I can't help it.
Resting is writing, writing is resting.
When I look at all my projects I feel
empty.
Empty as the white page gleaming aptly back at me.
I turn on the TV to escape the blank page,
the feeling of desolation that goes with it
and the show is a little too close.
I can't turn it off because it is about the emptiness I feel.
The jokes make me laugh but every laugh
turns into burning, dripping tears
and my chest shakes with weeping that is laughing.
One can't be without the other but
they can't both fill the same space
so my chest is empty.
I am empty.
So many projects, any one of them might be the one that sets me free.
I am free as I write them. No demands, no requirements, no payments, no contracts.
Writing is freedom. It's what I do.
It is pointless. I see that now.
It will never free me, it is freedom.
And it is empty.
I am empty while I do it. It empties me out. Intention intrudes and makes the page blank.
Empty.
Despair is not for everyone and I have feasted on it too long
glorifying despair
trying to listen, to hear it.
If only someone could help me down off my cross.
He said that in the movie and I wanted to believe it was true.
Help me down. I've had enough of despair.
The lesson of despair is that hope has no meaning.
Hope has no meaning and neither does despair.
Despair makes the page blank, takes away intention.
Writing without intention is pointless.
It is freedom.
Freedom is pointless.
Worse, imaginary.
I am setting myself free word by word, line by line, chapter by chapter
writing to no purpose and to no avail
filling the hours as I fill the pages
for nobody to read.
Can you support yourself on despair?
Can you support yourself on emptiness?
Can you cry when you laugh and not turn away from the bitter taste of it?
Time to write. I want to care about what I'm writing.
I want to care about the life I'm living.
I don't care enough to want to care.
The page is no longer empty and yet it seems so. What have I written? Does it matter?
What does it matter if it matters?
Empty. Blank.
Breathe in. Write something, Breathe out. See if there is any truth
in the words filling up the pages
filling up the hours
until it is time to do something.
Fill up the age.
Eventually die, leave behind all these pages.
Do they matter? Does it matter whether they matter?
Laugh, cry, what's the difference?
What does the blank page signify?
Why must it signify anything?
Why fill it with anything?
I wish I could tell you how I feel but I fear you already know.