I don't believe in nothingness

And of that, I am quite sure

But the Great Hall of my mind echoes with mysteries that I can never expect to solve

Questions, they're alright, I suppose

But my mind's voice, hollow, bounding off its own walls, unheard by any other being outside of myself

I can hardly endure it-

The empty cacophony is far worse than would be complete silence
Is there anything new here, anything being birthed?
No, I think that I am still laboring to strip away the old weathered and worn planks that once fortified my soul