Review: Zero

When I think of the concept of zero, I think of it inside a piece of fruit, like a cherry pit or an apple core, nothingness in a piece of hollow fruit. Most often, I picture zero wrapped in a fig from the fig tree next to my great-grandmother’s white house, right next to the kitchen window.
Because I can’t imagine nothingness, no color or light or darkness or anything and everything, I have to imagine it wrapped in something I could hold in my hand, and what better than fruit, which bloom and wither just as our skin and blood and muscles do, and I know that I’m just trying to conceive of myself in a way, a type of hollow fruit, a cherry pit of something unconceivable at my center.

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