nothing here

Nothing happens here—yet in that nothing, everything exists.

The days drift past like slow clouds over an empty harbour.

The same streets.

The same coffee shop.

The same bell above the door

announcing arrivals

that are never mine.

Morning settles into afternoon

with so little resistance

that time feels less like a river

and more like dust gathering on a windowsill.

Somewhere, cities continue without me.

Trains arrive.

Conversations unfold beneath neon signs.

Strangers fall in love in crowded restaurants.

Rain darkens unfamiliar pavements.

And yet,

here,in this quiet apartment

at the edge of a season,

another kind of world is taking shape.

Beneath my ribs,

a small and silent architect

works through the night.

Walls are measured.

Windows are imagined.

A heartbeat hangs its lantern

in a room no one else can enter.

The map of tomorrow

is being drawn in secret.

I sit beside the window

watching nothing happen.

The kettle boils.

A page turns.

The afternoon light shifts

from one corner of the room to another.

Outside, the trees stand motionless,

keeping their own counsel.

Inside,

an entire universe rearranges itself.

Perhaps this is how the most important things begin:

not with fanfare,

but in stillness.

Not with certainty,

but with waiting.

Like roots growing beneath frozen ground.

Like a story being written

on the reverse side of the page.

Nothing happens here.

Yet in that nothing,

everything exists.