I like to equate space in sentences to the Buddhist notion of emptiness. Emptiness is not devoid of, or a lack of meaning, rather emptiness indicates a potential. Emptiness is like zero where zero is not an indicator of nothing but the beginning, it is the possibility of what can come after that makes zero so crucial. Emptiness is not empty in the same manner that words are not reality. What I would like to say is that language used and understood in dualistic patterns might not be the vehicle to speak of non-dualistic emptiness. And yet, words are all we have for now.
I love sentences. I see and think in full sentences even if most of them reflect my preoccupation with the mundane. It is when I sit down to write poetry that the quotidian becomes the place of investigation, and an attempt to dislocate it from its place of comfort and habit. It becomes possible and necessary then to think about the (non) essence of phenomena as a complex, interdependent body of many parts, like a sentence that takes shape through construction and deconstruction.
A sentence is a group of bats flying out at dusk without injuring each other. It is squat and short as a slug. A sentence can make itself and the self reading it feel utterly solitary and helpless. It is a private garden. A sentence transforms or transfers words with each reading so they are no longer themselves. Again, one might think poetry and illusion.