I kept making the mistake of thinking that I was writing those few bursts of staccato articulation that fell from my brain and through my fingers like dry ash upon a dusty digital screen. The truth was always and already that I did not write these words anywhere near so much as they wrote me and it was here, somewhere between aspiration and acquiescence that I always found myself living as some kind of threadbare marionette that jerked and danced and tumbled on delicate strings of purely fictional self-belief. There was always something missing and it had taken me so many years to realise that the grandest irony of all was that the core absence here was actually my own. The one thing that I could never entirely express through words was the essential inability of those words to ever capture this hollow vacuum that lies at their own center and around which everything else had been built as some absurd leap of faith into the darkness that was always and already everywhere and everything. This was the emptiness upon which everything was built but that was also the one fact that was necessarily obscured from itself as the foundational truth of existence: that nothing exists.
This is how we all are.