Somedays I am so full of love that I fill up like a pod and burst, scattering all my happiness everywhere, leaving that place to bloom in itself.
I gather everyone and have a blast, laughing, reminiscing, just having plain old fun. People close to me know this. But somedays, I am filled with blind hatred or some sorrow that visited my life or I had borrowed. On those days even the person I love the most gets just the cold slab in my heart. There is no warmth. There is nothing. Just an emptiness that gathers around and swirls, weaving up a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Sometimes I fear that I will be lost in it, standing alone in the eye of the storm and having nothing to do except to be. I fear the repercussions my loved ones will have to experience because of me.
These dark, cloudy days stand eminent, conveying the necessity to burst and spread the last leaf of the season into the air that people breathe, let them feel the weight of that last leaf inside their mortal, brittle bodies. The pollen of life that spread in the morning can turn to a dead leaf by night and I cannot do anything about it. Nature is always tempestuous, dovish, sinister and innocent. Whether it remains inside or out, doesn’t matter, as I am engulfed in this emptiness, the emptiness that is between these states. Does emptiness exist or not? The pregnant question that Maupassant poses that if emptiness does exist then what exists in this apparent emptiness?