You would think it impossible to be about nothing, owing to the simple fact that even nothing – once it is written about -, is something. Yet here it is, in all its glory before you, being read; being shaped by your own unique facets of being. In other words, being turned into something. You’re doing that, not me.
I’m just the train carrying the sushi.
You are the one experiencing the sushi.
I act as a merely a conduit for your own mind to shift into gear. That’s what all writing is. Don’t misunderstand; I don’t seek to put my writing on a pedestal – or any sort of platform, shelf, or even a pile of old magazine and newspapers. It is what it is, the stark reality of interpretation. After all, humans have been interpreting various written works for thousands of years. Their slant, always being the author’s one true intention.
Of course I’m being factitious.
If writing and story are like a sushi train then it only stands to reason that life is like a bento box, and not a box of chocolates as first hypothesized. The most strident argument supporting the bento box theory is that at some point in your life, you will indeed have soup. If you should make it to old age, the consumption of soup will exponentially increase until you eventually depart. Upon departing, you may find yourself being returned to the earth whereby you will decay, insides liquefying – thus becoming your own version of soup. Not quite chicken soup for the soul, more like human soup for the earth. Don’t despair; you could end up looking like the contents of an ashtray.
Like I said, even nothing is something, and therefore nothing is sacred.