Existence of nonexistence is unfortunately different from nonexistence.

I created a life-size hole in the fabric of it.

I am trying to fill it.

Some of the fillings would be considered healthy and/or sophisticated. Lots of yoga. Lots of reading. Lots of podcasts.

Some of the fillings might be questionable. Acquiring books and music at a rate maybe exceeding that of intake. Acquiring yarn at a rate maybe exceeding that of knitting (as beautiful and rarely discounted or available the yarn might have been).

Some of the questionable fillings are negative, as in getting rid of stuff. Clothes, household items I don’t use. The car went. The car.

With some luck and skill, tango goes straight into the hole, as if to fill it. There is affection, caring, laughter. Somebody kisses my neck and my hand after a tanda; somebody kisses me on the lips.

Were those good tandas? I don’t know. They happened. They felt very good at the time. That’s where I get most of the bread crumbs of love I can receive. I was able to get more of those when I was younger. It doesn’t matter though. The breadcrumbs fill the hole for a few minutes. Until they don’t.

To be fair, it can be that the new hole I created is a copy of the master hole that’s been with me since nearly the beginning of time. (It’s a metaphor, OK? go with me here.) I cannot fill it, not directly. With healthier practices, I can make it hurt a little less. On a good day, on a good tanda.

Either way, I created a hole in the fabric of existence. Again.