Ontology of Emptiness.
I have known nothing but emptiness. I am a vessel but one of porous containment.
I do not hold water because no one will let me.
I do not hold water because no one will let me.
Void is my potential.
I usher but never marry. I guide but never carry. I am a tunnel, open on both ends, waiting.
Always waiting.
Always waiting.
I have only an exterior - no interior. The concept of pouring into me is as leaky as I am - how can you pour into something that ultimately has no in.
In the rare moments of asphyxiation, I am euphoric. Finally, might I become something new? Am I plastic?
No. I am still elastic. I will always be categorized and glorified, deified, fetishized, and pasteurized for my whiteness. For my inability to contain, for my slipperiness, and my ability to evacuate I am exulted. My allusion to the bowel is only in poetry as I have no control, no sphincter. We share a familiar ritual of being clogged with sometimes violent endings, always resulting in an ongoing existence of perpetual emptiness.
I remain a vacant shell for images, words, and knowledge to pass through. I am the small-town minutes from the city with an abandoned motel and overpriced gasoline.
Maybe I do contain?
In my worry and pathetic yearning to be more have I underestimated my potential as a container of the void? Am I a membrane, an architecture of in-betweenness, and am I the embodiment of an imagined architecture? I guide, I coerce, I organize, I am agential, but what passes through acts on me too. Its viscosity matters, I matter, our relation to each other changes how we act, how we interact, and how we intra-act.
Potential is my void and my in-betweenness. I am an agent of transmission, of flow, of movement and passage. A conduit, and a temporal disruption. Neither here nor there, always past and future, but never present. I am not a stopping point but instead I host moments of becoming and in that I too am an event. Always changing, always becoming, never constant, but constantly becoming becoming.