I am nothing, but everything all at once.

I am spelling errors and schedules, but in between that,
I am the words that I speak and write,
And the thoughts that I have in a crowded room,
Or the thoughts I have in an empty one.
I am the clock as it grows slower at two AM
And the bed that supports me
As I press my face against the cold wall.

I am warmth and time.
I am happiness gained,
And happiness lost,
And happiness not yet found.

I occupy space and spaces that surround me.
The things I hold dear are not objects, but experiences,
And survivors of time poorly spent.
I am nothing without time, or the sorrow that comes with its wasting.

I am everything, yet nothing at all.