I have nothing to write

I have nothing to write, but the weight of the pen feels good in my hand, so I will write about nothing weightily.

I have, for a long time, considered nothingness the comfortable blanket they place over one's body as it lies in a casket.

It is, in point of fact, the only time where nothingness actually exists.  At all other times there is pretty clearly something.

To me, this is a very comforting thought.  Nothingness can be attained.  

If, when we die, it is true that there is heaven, then it is also true that one can never achieve that old saying, 

"I'm not doing anything."

You are always doing something if you are existing.  There are bodily processes that are constantly in motion,

constantly doing something--and absolutely, positively, undeniably, unmistakably never, ever

doing nothing.

Is it because I have nothing better to do than contemplate nothing that I do it? 

Or is it rather that there is truly something to this investigation?  Or both?

To act is to love.  That was some Freudian shit right there, as I mean to say: To act is to live.  

What kind of sub-conscious shit are we dealing with here?