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Minimalist

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The curtain is ripping, yelling them sobbing then nothing. A blank white slate, or maybe a space, or maybe this is what nothing really looks like. A wall… Of indefinite shape and size. Nothing. Echoes maybe, of what the memories of thousands want us to hear. Never me, I am not alone. Always us, together, whole and forever. But what is whole in a nothing? Where the word is no longer an adjective but a noun; a thing, an irrevocable and immovable object? How do you mold nothing into the shape you see? Does it work like clay? Or is it tougher, rock or slate meant to be chipped away, too tough to break? Perhaps it is too tough to mold at all, and one must simply put things in front and pretend the nothing is not there. This is the danger in ripping the curtain; one never knows the shape of a nothing until he sees it for himself. A ripping of the curtain, the nothing. What do you see?





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