Maybe as I strive to direct my life according to the possible, memories occur, like rain clouds journeying west to east pressured by wind. These memories are neither small nor large; they are neither here nor elsewhere. They are the depth and echo of a future time; horses elegant and bright. Their galloping doesn’t mean they have come from elsewhere. Here when they are here, here before they were here, here after they were here – they are from no place from which I could ever orient myself.
Sunday, April 16, 2017
Origin of Flux
Perhaps that which has happened can unhappen at any moment. I take a breath in, and I immediately have to throw one out again. The edge of day, which appears fixed in the mosaic of my eye, is even closer than it seems as it pulls away from me into the passing hours, days, months and years of a lifetime.