I am secretly obsessed with sounding the boundaries of my perceptions: the taste inside my mouth, the reach inside my fingers, what my eyes see looking into nothing. The places my energies go when I begin to sense a situation crumbling. What can I patch, what can I move to safety? I try to understand that I don’t need to remind myself to breathe, but then again so often I trip an unanticipated stair down at the very bottom all alone in the dark. I am a slow spiral, perpetually self-renewing, moving inward with the same momentum with which i am moving out. At regular intervals I remember that every action requires effort, even inaction, especially inaction, sometimes, or have you never braced yourself at the door against another’s charge and wondered at how little it would take to put you down? At the beginning of stillness there is often violence in long need of being stilled. At the beginning of stillness is a wounding, a place all the pressures in the room rush toward. I’ve broken the seal, the seal is broken, the night gives out beneath me in a spray of bolts and splinters: nothing’s up to code, but then again not too many can be bothered to work that encryption into a message even an eleven-year-old could explain. There is no sure key to it, I thought to myself, fighting to open our vandalized mailbox again. What I mean to say is I am secretly obsessed with keys, things that lock, things obfuscated to the four corners of the earth, but so often I meet these matters with as much delight as sorrow. What I mean to say is I am secretly obsessed with secrets, those occult gathering at the edge of a glance. After all, haven’t we all needed to reduce a few tones from the final print? Conceal some matter from the ages, press it into our most fundamental structure, our defining essence, our armature, our frame.
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