You write, in your strange, crooked way. Incomprehensible, undecipherable to the last: the Queen's English cannot be understood by a mere peasant or gypsy. And what are words without a body, a gesture, a face? Do angels talk to one another?
I quietly reflect, alone with my thoughts: if you are not part of my world, and I am closed to yours, then what is the world, and why speaketh of the world? Not even a lark sees the open. I do not look out for you, but spy within. Truth is in a breast, yours, not mine, is folded for safe-keeping,crumpled, worn at the edges, opaque like an image in a dark mirror, a distant reflection of your true likeness.
This turning inwards, the curvature of one's soul, means that I become a barbarian to your gentle-ness. ess, esse est percipi, b. Remember? The hands grope, grasp things that cannot be seen, whether they exists or not. The hands can only mark time. How to speak, then, of things I have never seen and will never know? What to write, when you cannot speak my name?
2 comments:
truly wonderful (i won't write "breathtaking" any longer, because after my last "breathless" that will become too repetitive - though repetitions are at home here, they create the dark litany of the Black Sun).
"the hands can only mark time" - how can one forget that?
hello, r.
yes, it's incredible how much repetition there is..it's as if i only know a few words and they have to be rearranged now and then: dark, crow, fox, time..etc., etc.
anyways...got to rush. lecture. And as usual I'm not prepared!
see ya'
b.
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