wow wow here we are now here we are you see?
you know you see this? this is where I was last year. there we were. wonderful
the thing that really remains, just keeps on going, is the why, the why? the why, the why. the downcast why. the questioning why. the sigh-like why. the traffic-like why, the deep blue autumn night evening why, the height of buildings why, the glimmer of a lit window why, the phone call and an old voice why, the lonely light streaming in large windows why, the quiet radio in the morning lying awake in bed looking at the ceiling why, the walking around and hearing chants and wishing that I were home why, the being homesick why, the falling asleep alone why, the disbelief why, the blockage why,
right now more than anything I feel a fear, but of something very specific, which is like a kind of primordial fear of cliffs, oceans, enormous solid natural monstrosities, creations, formations. fissures. endless deep gorges. enormous gargantuan boulders. and in front of them you shiver, a little, because even if you tried to scrape away at this entity for the rest of your life it wouldn't matter, even if you rolled up your arms and sold everything you had and bought a shovel, or a jackhammer, or a bulldozer it wouldn't matter, because in front of you lies this enormous canyon unfathomable undeniable, there it is. you are at the tallest point in the world. you are in the biggest canyon in the world. you are sitting on top of the tallest waterfall in the world.
and that fear is not a fear of an object, or an event, or something that I don't want to happen, or that I didn't want to happen. or of a person.
really it's just fear of time,
time itself, time's incessant strength, stretching people apart, morphing them beyond belief. it is enormous and hefty. it stretches taller than you can see, hazing into a fog.
(you look at it and it's like the blade of a knife, the blade of the knife, the flat metallic sheen which is not really the important part of the knife, really, and it's funny that the sparkle of a knife's blade is the cliche-visual representation of sharpness, like in movies or cartoons or anime, when really sharpness exists within the point, the meeting of the two blades, the part you're not looking at if you're looking at the face of a blade; so that sparkle isn't even metonymy or analogy but a kind of transference or a transferring analogy, of the excellence of one attribute pointing towards another, the sharp sparkle, that crisp sheen. and so time's size is like this, you're in a field looking at time and your neck cranes back and you realize that what you are looking at isn't time's fearful ability, it's a transference, and the real ability lies elsewhere, is stronger, sinister, latent, happens before you know it, and then the you-of-before didn't know it but the you-of-now knows it. before you know it, knowing-it will happen.)
and there it is. this enormous thing. do you see? do you see? everything will change. do you see? we will lose everything that we had, and we have lost it already, and it will disappear forever into a nothingness that is like the nothingness of a mausoleum, a museum, preserved as a mark of what-was-once-now into what-once-was. do you see that enormous thing that is coming? it is here, and always, and will be. and in the midst of this all we are looking down and watching it disappear, disappear, disappear.
and there's just time, and change, and of course -- we will no longer be what we could be, but you know what? the most important-remarkable part is: we will no longer be able to even conceive of thinking about whether 'we will no longer be what we could be', you know, you step outside yourself and become totally anew, a not-you, like traveling, like letting yourself loose and lost in the sea of not-knowing-what-to-do and not-doing, and it is like you are raw and amorphous and malleable and just needing to formulate yourself into a being constantly, all the time. you're squeezing playdoh in your hand, you open your palm and the thing totters there, like some sort of egg with mountain ridges lining every which way, palm swirls rivulets gyrating on the surface, and it titters there.
we will not be here, we will not thinking of being here, we will not be thinking about thinking about not being here, and one day we will not think about even thinking, no longer conceive,
the scariest thing of all, this, again, is that it will close off not like an impossibility, but like something-you-don't-even-think-of, something outside the realm of the dialectic of possibility/impossibility, something like the question such as: "can a person eat the sun?" or "does light sleep green?". not unthinkable but not-thought-about.
here you are coming, time, I see you in the distance, coming, I see what you will do, will have it and have this all, will laminate it, plastic oozing between our pores, seeped into our very being, replacing our living-and-lived-ness.