I grew to hate the surface,
With its monotony and its emptiness.
I grew to despise the sun,
that constant and fickle provider and destroyer,
as it seared my skin and evaporated my companions before my eyes,
and sapped my mind as punishment for my own helplessness.
Drained, I withdrew into my own depths.
The benign horror coaxed me slowly down,
feeding on my final sparks of curiosity and emotion,
its charismatic appendages looping round and round my hysterical mind
soothing me into resignation, no longer caring what I saw or felt,
or how my lungs burned and my skin prickled,
protesting their asphyxiation as I descended.
I knew that to entertain my screaming, animal body’s pleas would be a masochistic effort.
No longer thinking, or caring for rhyme or reason, I sank to join the monster,
ignoring that it was the one that so ingeniously concocted my pain.
Silently down I drifted,
lilting and listing with the dynamic subtleties of apathy.
As I reached the silent black bottom of my salty pit,
the volcanic hotbed of adrenaline began to boil me alive
and the pressure from being seven miles down compressed my soul into nothing
and threatened to blast my entrails gloriously out of my ears.
These sensations and my own queer convection,
the roiling, superheated cycles and writhing seismic convulsions,
those unseen fireworks that are the core of one’s unknown being,
batted about my limp corpus like a cat’s toy,
tantalizing me with the closeness of the cold, dark peace that I so desired,
a desire that constituted the only distinction between me
and the void I wished to quietly fade into, to create a true nothing.
It would not be empty, this nothing, as there would be nothing to fill.
My turgid world was empty; the next would be nothing.
Gentle nothing, quiet nothing, peaceful nothing, uncaring nothing,
Let me be free with my nothing nothing,
let there be no me as I am nothing nothing,
HAIL the coming of the true nothing,
let the nothing inside me free, so it can join its fellow nothing,
let nothing rejoice in my return to nothing,
as my family of nothing invites me back into its nothing,
welcomes me home from my fight against thingliness,
a war not for peace or for victory, but for nothing.
Caring little for the oxymoron of desiring nothing, I drifted indifferently through the black,
And slowly forgot about the searing, hardhearted sun,
The quite, compassionate moon,
And the lazily rolling, rhythmic wavelength of life.