Nothing to Say

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When you’ve got nothing to say you’ve got yourself into a pretty difficult predicament. You’re becoming swallowed up by a paradox that is an impulse to produce some utterance that can only exist if it isn’t heard. To say nothing is not necessarily not to say. If someone could truly say nothing, then wouldn’t we all want to hear it? That thing that cannot be heard: nothing? If someone says they’ve got nothing to say, then I am all the more keen on listening… hoping that I will somehow hear the sound of a void. You’d think it’d be a whoosh, like a vacuous imploding. A quiet intake of breath? But the inhale is usually right on the precipice of saying something… would it be a pure moment of suspense? Anticipation made audible? The great silence that precedes creation? The moment right before the big bang?
Is it the profound quiet you hear when it snows and the whole world has been insulated and hushed?
Is it merely the tonal inflection of a question… abstracted from its words?
I’d say I’ve got nothing to say, but that seems like a pretty tall order.

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