Restless within imagined history, I am marking and erasing again and again on an infinite palimpsest. An isolated instance of time may seem to tear and pull apart to reveal the timelessness behind it, but I can consider only this one moment, never the eternal. A solecism of the mind is my only hope of reconciliation. The effect of error is remembrance. Yet here, in the infinite array of finite characters, all is promptly, paradoxically forgotten. That is that, and that is why. It is said that the obvious makes for profound revelations, the best jokes. Leave obtuse complications to time, that spinning mirror. The guns of history shoot blanks just as often as the real thing. To write at all of the passing of the world is to embrace the unreal. Who bothers to describe a thing except when they cannot attain it, when they have already lost it?

To write a line is to hinge the door to the frame. It is to fix time, align faceless portraits along the dim corridors of a fortress that once was a palace that once was a forest. Prose, born of poetry, itself born of nature, exists in signs and symbols now. The press of time subsumes one truth into another. Though I may cease altogether, here I persist?

This is all a lie, a lie lying to itself. In the form of a word a thing has no form at all. Physicality becomes process, an unravelling method. If revelations seep through then I will use them, turn them inside out. This is how it always is. From inside to out, I consume, deplete, vacate. When I am empty at last I will have the look of one suffering the end of the world. Certainly the world ends, but it is hardly noticed. It is boring. Looking upon the endless ending we only seek beginnings. Walking backwards into the unknown we describe what is already done and gone.

Words are always about words, nothing more. The naming of things consumes consciousness and dispenses self-consciousness – the cruelest simulacra, an interference pattern that dimly points to sensations stripped of context and origin. There is something obscene about a name, so stale, almost accusatory. It betrays so much. By naming a thing, we falsely claim it; it is not ours. Soon everything appears similarly, as if by design, blurred, and we lose the ability to focus. Our eyes limp from scene to scene, pained, glancing backwards, wanting to lie down and daydream. It is not the solidity of things that we must be wary of, but the ephemera that lies beyond. Black letters in the sky black above the black trees. In that shapelessness which we have made, our image is made shapeless.


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