Harlark
04-06-2014, 08:37 AM
I see a hole. It’s a small, black space with nothing in it. Devoid of anything of worth or interest. What makes it a hole, or the reason for its existence? Far more interesting. But I’m not going to write about that. Everyone writes about why the hole is there and what made it; nobody talks about the hole itself. I however, shall talk about the hole!
This particular hole is a ragged tear in the fabric of… a grey, concrete wall. Sorry, I’ve deceived you. It’s actually a roof. In this dull, lifeless room it is the only spot of any texture or feeling at all. Even if that feeling is one of hollowness, of something fundamental missing. But I’ve stopped talking about the hole.
Us humans, we don’t like holes. We can’t see what’s in them, even though the truth is that in a true hole there isn’t anything there. We want the hole to have something in it, to have some meaning. So we imagine that there’s some horrible creature lurking in the dark. However small the hole is, if you think about this long enough, you will look away. I guarantee you; I’ve been staring into it for a long, long time. But I’ve stopped talking about the hole again.
A hole is a space in which we can fill with anything; It is like a blank canvas, except it’s just a hole. I’ve spent many a year looking into this abyss and imagining that I’m looking through a crackling rift onto a mystical world of wonder and magic. Searching with my heavenly gaze, I see towering spires reaching into the sky, hunting for that insignificant speck that is the hole through which I look. From one such spire grows an impossible island, on which is a small hut where an old man with eyes wiser than mine looks back at me. Sometimes I wonder what he’s thinking. I think that he’s wondering what I’m thinking. I believe that he’s thinking that I’m wondering if he’s thinking about what I might be thinking. Do you see? Even as I chuckle at my own thoughts, he’s doing the same.
Actually, you know what? I give up.
This particular hole is a ragged tear in the fabric of… a grey, concrete wall. Sorry, I’ve deceived you. It’s actually a roof. In this dull, lifeless room it is the only spot of any texture or feeling at all. Even if that feeling is one of hollowness, of something fundamental missing. But I’ve stopped talking about the hole.
Us humans, we don’t like holes. We can’t see what’s in them, even though the truth is that in a true hole there isn’t anything there. We want the hole to have something in it, to have some meaning. So we imagine that there’s some horrible creature lurking in the dark. However small the hole is, if you think about this long enough, you will look away. I guarantee you; I’ve been staring into it for a long, long time. But I’ve stopped talking about the hole again.
A hole is a space in which we can fill with anything; It is like a blank canvas, except it’s just a hole. I’ve spent many a year looking into this abyss and imagining that I’m looking through a crackling rift onto a mystical world of wonder and magic. Searching with my heavenly gaze, I see towering spires reaching into the sky, hunting for that insignificant speck that is the hole through which I look. From one such spire grows an impossible island, on which is a small hut where an old man with eyes wiser than mine looks back at me. Sometimes I wonder what he’s thinking. I think that he’s wondering what I’m thinking. I believe that he’s thinking that I’m wondering if he’s thinking about what I might be thinking. Do you see? Even as I chuckle at my own thoughts, he’s doing the same.
Actually, you know what? I give up.