The Urge of Telling Stories

The urge to tell stories,
to tell the story,
the biggest story,
even when there isn’t one.
And that,
that is the story.

Not the story of the story,
but the story of its genesis:
how nothing
finds a way
to write itself.

The story of the zero
that spiral upon itself
into a circle.

A point,
with no dimension,
extends its emptiness into length.
Length,
a procession of points.
Points,
each a volume-less marker of absence.

Width arrives the same way.
Depth, too.

Space itself,
a cathedral of zeros,
each arch made of nothing
holding nothing.

Time,
a sequence of nows,
each vanishing at birth,
like a bead that slides off the thread
the instant you touch it.

Even matter,
the stubborn illusion,
is mostly space.
Atoms,
99.999999999% vacuum,
their nuclei the brief punctuation
in an infinite silence.

Electrons,
not fixed,
but probability clouds,
dancing to the measure
of the Planck constant.

Light,
a braid of electric and magnetic fields,
waves without a medium,
painting the void
with the memory of color.

The magnetism of zero,
the pull of nothing
on the shape of everything.

The void:
not absence,
but the grand result
of every obstruction
to being an object.

Colors,
only possible
where clarity breaks
the light apart.