Sometimes, I walk around very aware of this gaping emptiness in me. The size of the hole changes at times, though I haven't yet figured out the variable that makes it more lonely versus more tolerable. I'm not sure what, if anything, could really fill it. Perhaps it has a leak, and as all the things of the world pour into it, they just as quickly run back out into puddles at my feet.
A vessel finds its worth in its emptiness. Its purpose as an empty space is to be filled, to hold on something precious. Regardless of the beauty of the bowl, the cup, the vial, regardless of its composition, it is first and foremost an empty space, something without composition at all, defined only by its boundaries.
This leaves me with a conundrum. If I ever find that which could fill my void, do I become complete? Or do I simply lose my usefulness in this world?
