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We, sometimes you and I, have discovered the special secrets of our own desires in the dark. We have begun, at length, almost never to unlearn these things which have belonged to us since those tired nights we sat in near-silence, in painted rooms using our own thoughts as bouncing boards, turning over logic and somehow finding something we can�t explain or understand. There is, so often, a shortage of time in silence. Our lives are folding away like reception chairs. So with fingers on posters and pens in hand, we write out these things that have come to mean so much, these little subtler natures of ourselves, our existences and trace them back, at arm�s length to the fortress where all things lean forth from, the river from which all water must be pulled, all nourishment derived from. Trying is so often our enemy. Be still, restlessness we are here to find, seekers of a brand new kind of understanding, as so many before and millions after, we are there and here both at once. The people we know are someone else. The times we smile are fractions of our lives and we are sometimes wasting, so eagerly, away.

So here, made of little energy bombs, calories counted and spread forth into livers and hearts and lungs, we are made of motion, made of the very act of thinking, living and somehow we co-exist with all our worst ideas at once. I�ve tried so hard, so long and nothing counts so little as effort: we are tracing truth out in sand in the dark of mind-beaches with fragile views. We are, sometimes you and I, the softest of tortures on any way of being.

2004-04-24 | 12:44 p.m.
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