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117 of 365

I think I have more than one void in me. Large hollow spaces that I can’t and have not been able to explain. It is pretty presumptuous to assume that everybody is not whole. But I do imagine that all of us have some empty spaces, too. Maybe the sizes vary. Maybe their existence varies. Strange, unexpected things fill these blanks. It could be darkness, art, greed, magic, books, bitterness, writing, sports, spite, misery or happiness. Through the many people I have met, I have realised that each one fills this void with something that defines them. For me, I feel I move along the spectrum. The same void is stuffed with happiness or magic some days and on other days with darkness. However, the voids or spaces have not yet been filled with bitterness or spite.

I don’t think the voids or the spaces are ever completely filled. I think they continue to exist. Maybe one just pretends they don’t exist anymore. I don’t think I want to fill mine up even with positive, warm ideas. It all seems too final, too complete. There is little room for negotiation then and I like movement.

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