Nothing Something

Words by Jonathan Labao

I have heard many a tale of those who came before me and their tales of blood, sweat, and tears

Of their hard work day in and day out

Their constant drive and commitment to their dream

How they devote all their time to it

How I must continuously




put out something,



and repeat

Because if I truly wanted it then I would be willing to deal with the pain

Because if this is truly my calling then I would push through

Because if I was truly passionate about this

Then I could do all of that and then some

But I have lost my passion

With each passing day

Each new abomination I bring into fruition from my mind

My passion slips and seeps it’s way through the cracks taking an alternate route from my heart to my art only to never reach its destination as it got lost

And so my art becomes art for the sake of art

But not the kind where we sit in my room and reimagine what old vinyl records ought to look like

Or the kind where we are cramped on the porch on a summer evening recreating the world with our fingers and old tubes of paint

My art for art is demanded by an audience that will not see it

That does not want it

It is art for the sake of keeping my presence in the local and online scene present in some capacity because if I am not continually pushing something out, who will bother to look my way?

Falling into the lost articles bin at Bay Station, that no one ever goes to because the chances that someone has not taken home the umbrella you left while rushing off the train and turned it in to the TTC, is the same as someone looking to see if you have made anything new when you haven’t posted anything in 3-5 business hours

Because even if they don’t care, the brief look at the pink circle around my profile picture will remind them that I am still creating

Even though what I create is empty and devoid of life and feeling at least it’s something right?

I have been forced through a Brita filter, reduced to:

At least it’s something

Because anything is better than nothing

Because musical,



poetic garbage is still something

Because the days I spend vomiting something is still better than nothing even if the something that I forcefully eject from my mind is substantially nothing

Like empty orange juice cartons still sitting in the fridge

waiting to hit its next victim with a wave of betrayal and disappointment

But nothing still costs something

And for the low, low price of my sanity, mental and physical well being

My blood, sweat, tears, tears, and more tears you get a flaming pile of nothing somethings

I want to drain every ounce of nothing somethings from my body

Photo by gustavo centurion on Unsplash


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