Zero–it stands alone, unapologetically and unequivocally, as the only eternal numerical figure
that could and would ever accurately portray literal nothingness.
Even negatives, at least, represent progression to one side of an arithmetic plane, opposite of positives. Yet, zero defiantly choose neither.
The reality we occupy fundamentally allows no definition for anything to be more nor less than The Nothing, itself.
Even darkness–although a formidable opponent and a close runner-up–does not stand as worthy to fill zero's infinitely void shoes, for it's merely the absence of light. Zero is not even blackness.
Zero is the absolute and completely unwavering lack of presence of every memory, emotion, experience, bond, relationship, and person to a name.
When it comes to rouge thoughts of her, I am like zero. It's the only digit worthy to represent my condition, or maybe my condition is the only kind worthy to portray it.
I am zero now. There're no more late night tears, no more longing for her call to work it out, no more being forwarded to voicemail, no more wondering who she's with, no more allowing myself the indulgence in fond memories, no more wondering about what went wrong and about how things could've been saved, no more blaming myself, no more wondering what we are, and no more hope of us finishing what we were building.
I don't wish you the best nor do I wish you the worst. For, that would require a positive or a negative. There was an allotted amount of time for mourning, and I allowed myself neither once I hit my quota.
For this, I now discard any invasive remnants of you, both physical and reminiscent. I've no bitterness nor happiness to bid you–only the tasteless, colorless, limitless, and empty void only a character like zero could encompass.
From the Soul,
Published works: https://amzn.to/3gA4Dh3