So you’d like to sonograph emptiness, and see what it can produce.
Come. Take these sheets of paper.
Those are my writings that you see. Those works are as close to emptiness as you'll ever get.
They are emptier than vacuum.
A vacuumed space, at least, has the power to put you out of breath; it evokes a reaction.
My writings? They're as empty as emptiness will ever get.
If you place it on the table, lube it up, and glide the transducer over,
The waves will pass through it and hit the table.
If you hold it in the vastness of space and repeat the same,
The waves will travel to infinity,
Showing you and me that's how far I must go before my words can hold any meaning,
Before readers can quote my saying,
Before I can be proud of my writing.
If perchance, a wave hits something meaningful and bounces back,
Maybe you'll see darkness on the screen.
A darkness close to the inside of a black hole.
Ha! Who am I kidding?
Black Holes are objects of mystery that lure people to observe,
To decode, and to deconstruct the purpose of their existence.
My writings? They're not the kinds of emptiness one would sit before to theorise and analyse,
Because they're empty, and they're as close to sonographing emptiness as you’ll ever get.
So get going.
Oh, you're back! Are the images as void as my life and this room I live it in?
No? What do you mean?
"I too thought it was darkness, at first.
But I sat to deconstruct it, for a black hole deserves to be studied and deconstructed.
And then I found it. I found it all.
I found the pain and the truth, and honesty so brute,
Stories weaved across time, imagery drawn across space.
I found themes that reached every shore,
Sometimes passing a treasure chest filled with the things you adore.
I found passion and practice, and failure and genius.
Fights and misery, loneliness and vice.
I found activism and power, Romanticism of a lover.
Agony and agility, nakedness and nobility.
And above all, I found you, and in you, I found me—"
No, you didn't... You liar.
"No, my dear. My words aren't empty, and neither are yours.
The person across the street may not see it.
But somewhere, a little girl has preserved them in her heart,
Reading them whenever she feels like her life's falling apart.
She adores you. She adores the emptiness of your words.
Because she knows that empty spaces are the mysterious depths that haven't been discovered and studied yet.
She knows that empty spaces are where one goes to shed a tear or bring a loved one to endear.
And some day, when she's old enough and wise enough for the world to listen to her,
She will show the world the discovery she made in your writings;
She will praise to the world of your undiscovered vastness.
And then, it will no longer be empty, for readers will swim through it,
Trying to find the parts they can relate to, the ones they can call theirs,
The parts they can preserve, and the parts they can detest.
May this sonogram remind you that your writings aren't empty.
They are filled with you.
And now that I've read them, they’re filled with me."