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If There Were No Emptiness
por
Margaret Atwood
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If there were no emptiness, there would be no life. Think about it. All those electrons, particles, and whatnot crammed in next to each other like junk in an attic, like trash in a compactor smashed together in a flat block so there’s nothing but plasma: no you no me. Therefore I praise vacancy. Vacant lots with their blowing plastics and teasels, vacant houses, their furze of dust, vacant stares, blue as the sky through windows. Motels with the word Vacancy flashing outside, a rеd neon arrow pointing, pointing at the path to be takеn to the bored front desk, to the key-shaped key on the dangling brown leather key holder, the key that opens the vacant room with its scored linoleum floor a blear-eyed yellow its flowery couch and wilted cushions its swaybacked bed, smelling of bleach and mildew its stuttering radio its ashtray that was here seventy years ago. That room has been static for me so long: an emptiness a void a silence containing an unheard story ready for me to unlock. Let there be plot.
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