Zero was never empty.
It was crowded with potential —
a silence so dense
it bent inward.
Before matter,
there was tension.
Before light,
a rumor of radiance.
Points did not gather —
they entangled.
Across no-distance,
they whispered coordinates
to one another.
Thus, a place emerged —
not built,
but collapsed
from possibility.
Mist is the memory of uncertainty.
It blurs the arrogance of edges.
What you call form
is only probability
momentarily obedient.
A thought —
not born,
but tunneled
through the walls of nothing.
It appears.
Ink follows.
Color fractures.
Metal bends to concept.
You say: poem.
painting.
invention.
But these are only
stabilized tremors
in the field of the unseen.
Dimension is a bruise
on infinity.
And every creation
is a brief rebellion
against the symmetry of zero —
which patiently waits
to reclaim its silence.
Musfiq us shaleheen
13.02.2024