with words is a natural instinct. To create text where there is nothing. To fill up empty spaces with thought, even when emptiness would be apt, when rumination would be subtraction by addition. It's part bad-editing, part insecurity. My feeling that I won't be adequately understood unless I wrote everything, until I maximise the moment instead of sharpening and honing it for accuracy. Until I feel that everything that needs to be said has been said. Until it opens up avenues to infinities of other ideas, of other tangents and connections, so much so that the original point has been lost altogether, so much so that the existence of all thought around the "point" is the point in itself. Sometimes, in such a space, I may not even get to that "point" at all, and instead, leave a point-shaped hole around a dense cloud of trash. Sometimes it means nothing at all. Sometimes, it means everything. To fill up a silent room with audio, with music always playing in the background, a shuffled playlist of all the music I've ever owned, bombarding the present with the past with the planned randomness of an iTunes algorithm. Sometimes, when silence is better than noise, I choose noise. The chaos calms me. It creates distractions, arrows pointing at every direction except my own. It leaps over that same silence that, mulled over for too long, can expose a hollow abyss, a haunting nothingness in space. Sounds that cloud around what I actually have to say - or have to think - leaving nothing but a thought-shaped empty wisp in the middle. To fill up a day with chores and schedules and tasks. Brushing teeth for x number of minutes before a breakfast before a tea or a coffee before y hours of work and z pages of a book and the next meal, and the next block of work, and the next ordered segment of reading. Each block must be sealed close, shut without breathing room between one to the next, so that there is no free time for emptiness, no gaps in the page. And the whole day passes without a pause between the margins, and so comes bedtime and the abc number of minutes streaming a show before the day ends, and there have been no gaps, except the gap that can only be seen when zoomed out and away from the page. The gap formed without space and time. The gap of life itself.