← Vie’s Library
he is seeking something within the shade of his own thinking and cannot alight upon
he has grown vexed with himself, how the mind roams this way and that, pressing against something he seeks yet feels
the need to draw back from.
the eyes regarding him as though they have the power to roam freely inside his thoughts, seeking to free something within him
that isn’t there.
Old memories stamp on wet leaves, swing on rope, huddle in the bushes, voices calling out from the past, ready or not, here I come.
if you change ownership of the institutions then you can
change ownership of the facts, you can alter the structure of belief, what is agreed upon, that is what they are doing, Eilish, it
trying to change what you and I call reality, they want to muddy it like water, if you say one thing is another thing and you say it enough times, then it must be so, and if you keep saying it over and over people accept it as true – this is an old idea, of course, it really is nothing new,
the sad and burdened face, the unblinking preoccupation.
nursing an oblique thought.
she sees how happiness hides in the humdrum, how it abides in the everyday toing and froing as though happiness were a thing that should not be seen,
can feel her smile uncoupling from her face, the smile sliding past her jaw onto the floor.
Memory lies, it plays its own games, layers one image upon another that might be true or not true, over time the layers dissolve and become like
smoke,
entered into a tunnel and there is no going back, she says, we just need to keep going and going until we reach the light on the other side.
why do I feel it in my chest all day, it’s there when I’m asleep, it’s there when I wake in the middle of the night, I feel as though something’s dying inside me,
pull the terror out by the root, to caress the mind back to its old shape.
time is at once addition and subtraction, time adds one day to the next and always takes away from what’s left, the slow sleeping breath before her.
the odour of fear on her body,
the child absorbing the mother’s trauma and storing it in his body for later use, the child become adult stricken by dread and blind anxiety,
this fear that lives in her
abdomen stretching itself, it moves into her legs when a warplane scuds overhead.
the weight growing moment by moment so that she is swollen again with child, this sense of mass and burden that is at once her own tissue and blood,
what is knowing without the facts, it is nothing but speculation, fortune telling and divination, guessing is so often wrong, it is wrong most of the time.
mouth so that she must whisper as she speaks, the stone sliding down her throat so that she must breathe around it as she
nothing to see in the ruined yard but the world insisting on itself,
there will remain the world’s insistence, the world insisting it is not a dream and
she can see that the world does not end, that it is vanity to think the world will end during your lifetime in some sudden event, that what ends is your life and only your life, that what is sung
the prophet sings not of the end of the world but of what has been done and what will be done and what is being done to some but not others, that the world is always ending over and over again in one place but not another
and that the end of the world is always a local event, it comes to your country and visits your town and knocks on the door of your house and becomes to others but some distant warning, a brief report on the news, an echo of events that has passed into folklore,