There once lived a man who was so renowned for his artist abilities that people flocked to him from far and wide, seeking to have themselves drawn and immortalized in canvas and paint. He was no ordinary artist for he did not paint what he saw but what Was. It is for this reason that I had to see him. I had to know the answer. What was I?

After making the flight to his home country and the tiring car ride to his neighbourhood of residence I booked in at a hotel. The line to his home usually began at six AM sharp and extended into the hundreds in only a few hours. All waiting to see what they were. I began setting my alarm, setting aside clothing and money and such for the early morning and then flicked on the television, content to fall asleep now that my goal was so close.

When the alarm rang I sprung out of bed, quickly dressed and hopped out the door, eager to arrive before anyone else. When the bell tower tolled six the door promptly opened and I was let inside. The man, in his early fifties with a full head of white hair to match his full beard, gestured silently to a chair and I sat down. I opened my mouth to fill the silence the need to explain myself and why I had come but was sharply cut off by a brisk wave of his hand. He picked up his paint brush and began painting.

Two hours later he suddenly sat up, dropping his paintbrush. Bending over to retrieve it he looked at me and I wondered at the look in his eyes. Nodding, he turned the painting around to reveal a black square inside of a white square. Peering into the blackness I could make out stars, planets, whole nebulai. Glancing into the white I could see intricacies within the brushwork, spirals that drew the eye in and trapped it, much like a hole. I glanced up, puzzled, and demanded to know what this was.

He simply said that it was everything, and it was nothing. I was shown the door and, still stunned, I stepped outside and somehow made it back to my apartment. I must have looked like a fool, coming out of his house, but no doubt residents have seen people like me a dozen times over. Sitting on the bed I held the painting in front of me, pondering. I had come to know what I was, what I am, and that the painter draws what Is.

Then I realized. I am Everything and I am Nothing. I hung the painting up above the bed, leaving it in the hotel for anyone checking into that room to see. I laughed, and packed for the trip home.