The Reservoir

But what does it mean to write in the dark by the light of a candle with nothing in sight? We live in continuity, and not. Or create our continuities and not. That is, the continuity we create is not the continuity, is not the continuum, but an invention for the sake of ease of understanding, for the sake of forgetting. You start to ask yourself a question, but know not what it is. Forgotten? Pushed Aside? Suppressed? Or something else - a question still, yes - but something unreadable. The slow fall into afternoon can be like this. Sometimes there is so much clarity, an expression of ecstatic union, unity, clarity - a centeredness, or maybe the lack of a false centering. Something not wordable yet. Something we ease and feel around, edgewise and unsire and blind, until at some point it becomes clear. Or it reveals, or we capture. Or coincidence is just coincidence afterall, but the long falling afternoons fear us into believing it's more. Are you forcing yourself into this position? Don't you always do this, and then forget? One second falls after another into oblivion and nothing, nothing.