An invitation: What is the thing that came before nothing? 

A question: If you don’t know what it is to be nothing, how can you be lonely?

A promise: After the long night and the cold morning, you will see me.

There lives a creature, ancient and stuck. Ancient and new. Ancient and lost. This is the thing that came before nothing. Before nothing had a name. What is my name? What am I? 

Before nothing had a name, and before the morning was cold, it was me who was nameless, and me who was cold. Cold and slow and stuck. 

Too large to fit through the light of the moon, but small enough to feel its teeth. Too large to negotiate with the skin of the earth, but small enough to be buried by it. Too large to be eaten by my own desire, but small enough to be afraid of it. 

When Nothing learned its name, i fell into fear. Before Nothing had a name, we were the same, and i feared being left behind. Feared being made too small. When Nothing learned its name, i took efforts to learn mine. But i am ancient, and stuck. Ancient, and new. Ancient, and lost. 

I think of the pains that Nothing took to learn its name, and wondered how I might do the same. How can I grow, and devour, how can I meet the cold morning after the long night, how can I show you? Is it too much? Will you tell me if it’s too much?

I think of the pains that Nothing took to learn its name, think of the things it had to leave behind. The things I cling to because they make me feel safe are the things that make me small. Or is it the clinging that makes me small?

What if the clinging is what I leave behind? What else is there, but to cling? If i am able to pass the long night, and reach the cold morning, will it be because I let go?

Will you see me?

After the long night, and the cold morning, will you see me?