Everything has disappeared. But this everything has disappeared appears. Everything disappeared, but there’s still something. Something hidden, something never taken account of, something unmeasurable, unaccountable. That appears on no one’s books.
Eternal nothingness. But eternity as eternal repetition, eternal lapping on the same shore.
The void, nothing but the void, but there’s not even a void, just as there’s not even nothingness. Nothing bothers to be. Nothing that leaves the element. Nothing that crawls up the shore. Nothing that tries to breathe the air.
Everything’s larval, submerged. It all stays under the water. It all gasps, under the water.
Not even a prayer. Not even a plea. Not even a desire. That’s too grand a word, desire.
Blind pressure. Weight of the weightless. Crushed, but without anything crushing you.
How we disappoint everyone. How we disappoint ourselves. How we fuck up.
Formless. Prolix. Spreading. In a kind of contagion. An invasion. A great slackening. An untying. A loosening. Of moment from moment. Of minute from minute. Of hour from hour. Of day from day. Of night from the other night.
Abandoned to what we are. To what we aren’t. Given to it – given over to it. But to what? To nothing.
At the mercy of what? Subject to what? Dependent on what? Inspired by what?
Foundering. Sinking into ourselves – but into what? Into ourselves become what?
Ourselves become swamp, become mire, become no man’s land. Ourselves become wasteland, become edgeland, become nowhere, become terrain vague.
And distance in our hearts. And absence in our hearts. And errancy in our hearts.
Truancy. A true truancy. A scattering. They’re scattering our ashes. Dispersal …
We’re unreal. Impossible. Each of us a kind of fog. Each of us a cloud of vagueness.
Behind the world. Is that where we are? Beneath it. In a lower dimension, where things come undone. Where what we say is slurred. A dub dimension, the usual world in dub, in vagueness, in echo.
This is truth. The truth of error. Errancy.
Wandering without respite.
Removal. Evacuation. Astray in ourselves. Our own ghosts.
Echoes. Rumours.
Life without life. Death without death. Always elsewhere, never here. Never coinciding with ourselves.
Obscure abundance. Here collapsed into nowhere, and all that. Disappearance. The end unending, never reaching the end, never finding finality.
Who are we supposed to be? Whose disguise is this? Whose alibi are our lives? Whose lie are we telling? Who are we, and who aren’t we?
Outside ourselves. Expelled from ourselves. Held outside ourselves. Our own usurpers. Our own stand ins. Our own stunt doubles. Our own extras. Failing to convince. Doing bad impressions of ourselves. Pretending – but badly.
We’re pod people. We’ve been bodysnatched. Possessed. This is not us speaking. But who is that is speaking?
The persistence of what cannot finish. The anterior. The posterior.
The inordinate. The measureless.
A place that is nothing but interval. But interstice. That is nowhere yet.
A time that is interval. Where nothing has happened, where all is yet to happen.
A waiting – but for nothing other than waiting. Waiting become intransitive. Without object. The abyss.
Here collapsed into nowhere. Nowhere that is also here.
Death happening and never stopping happening. Infinite dying. The shadow of a moment.
No one yet. Not quite anyone. No one any longer. But Someone. Impersonal. Never anyone in particular. Not you and not I.
An assembling that is a dispersal. A summoning that is a letting go.
The formless presence of absence. An opaque, empty opening. No more world. No world yet. Not anything: earth. The elemental deep.
Work in Progress 