The Empty Spot
I stare at it sometimes when I see it, that blank white emptiness that on occasion comes into view of its own accord. Sometimes it is here and sometimes it is not, but it can’t be summoned or banished and never answers to a human will as to its comings and goings. Still it's there sometimes in my view, a nothing of varied shape that extends an infinite distance to appearances, canceling out, seemingly erasing, whatever would otherwise be there in its place. Where something was, now there is nothing, a void and absence, purest white beyond white, and what was there, is there, within the lines of this strange entity’s form is no more. This does not seem to do anything any harm—neither object nor animal, not a human being, man, woman, or child. There it might be, taking the place of a person’s face, rendering them completely headless—a should-be fatal condition—but soon it will move on and that person will be right as new and always at unawares of what has transpired. Perhaps this has even happened to me.
The empty spot lives, I think. It moves and breathes as though it were alive. Before I am able to see it, or before it moves into my field of vision, I can often feel it nearby, sense it like something looking over my shoulder. On rare occasion—when it’s in the mood, I suppose—it may even be engaged in brief conversation—always brief. No, it has no patience for lengthy discussion and neither is it terribly forthcoming when engaged so. Terse and cryptic are its preferred modes of communication. Its voice rings forth almost overlapping itself, as though it is an echo of a voice that has no original. So, when it wishes, it speaks and evinces some understanding—more so than a talking bird, or at least it seems to me—though whether or not it is truly intelligent, I can’t say, and doubt anyone else is in a better position to answer the question. If it has a name of its own, it has never deigned to share it with me nor to my knowledge anyone else, living or dead.
Others have seen and engaged with the empty spot; or perhaps with other empty spots like it, if there are more of them, more than this one. The spot itself will admit to nothing of the sort; it never answers the question at all, not even in the usual indeterminate way it is fond of answering my questions. No one seems to have developed any particular insights into the being, if that’s the right word, beyond those that I’ve gleaned; it is a mysterious thing and content to remain so, at least if its behavior is any guide. Mind you, I sometimes wonder whether what it does and what it says are of any use in understanding what it is or what it desires. There is something about it which suggests a separation between those phenomena, as though it's a prisoner almost of itself. It gives no hint of emotion, but I find it somehow pitiable—as though consumed with a underlying sadness. Were I to ask it about that, it would only laugh in its hollow echoing manner.
The blank spot is with me over on my right in the upper corner of the room where I am looking now. There is no reason for its being there, it's not doing anything, and it shows no interest in me nor anything here in the room with us. To tell the truth, at the moment, I am not sure I return any interest in it. I have grown accustomed to it when it happens to be here within my sight and, though it never does anything to cause me concern, sometimes I find myself resenting its presence and wishing to be rid of it forever. Then I resent myself for feeling that way, because I suppose it has as much right to do what it does and be where it is as I do. I don’t know why it is here, now or ever, and I don’t think I ever shall. And perhaps, in truth, that is what I resent most.