August 10, 2012

one's own emphasis on erasure

Everything is a question of sleep.

Establishing the incoherent border, which will later separate events from experience with the particular of which a later nostalgia might be formed. When the verb might multiply, nothing is isolated in history. To follow the progress of ideas or that line of reasoning, so full of surprises and unexpected… What follows a strict chronology has no memory. An other is a possibility. A person does not look in the photo as she does. But the margin is not purer. I've been a blind camera all day. 

One’s own emphasis on erasure. The sweet sweet blend. When another enters the picture or scene. This is the fall before the fall. The one where documents get absorbed in alias. She is nothing but herself in tiny reflect. And I want that for her. Someone must say this now, must be tired of the proud all along so it seems. A new beginning in language in the totality of business. Why can’t I find you. Why can’t I find the part that is missing in myself. When the very idea of hurt brushes your bangs aside, weeps, and implies separation.