The thing is, we’re all made of nothing more than atoms quivering with uncertainty. Atoms of carbon, hydrogen, oxygen and nitrogen that constantly tremble, that fleetingly leap into states of excitement only to plummet as quickly, and that, in the process, propagate the colours we see, the voices we hear, the scents we taste, the heat we crave.
Is it any wonder that we carry with us such unfillable emptiness, when the very atoms that make us contain mostly empty space, a nothingness characterized by whirling, probabilistic negativity? As time gently kills us, as we plummet towards the inevitability of entropy, maybe all we have left to fill the emptiness within are memories.
Memories of the colours of our faces, the tones of our voices, the lightness of our scents, the warmth of our bodies. Figments of imagination we invoke and recreate to hold together the shreds of sanity slowly slipping away from our quivering hands.