Flux in Flux

The darkness rolling and gathering – and dispersing again. The darkness, shifting in itself. Slipping in itself. Turning viscous.

The darkness, coming to itself and then releasing itself. Darkness, reforming and deforming. Releasing everything to matter, base matter. Before allowing it all to regroup. To be recomposed. To build itself back up. To clot. To block its own arteries.


Wandering in forgetting. Erring and umming, in the world’s night.

Inevitability. Endlessness. The tedium of its going-on. Of its lack of resolution. Of finality. The whole andmoreagain. The entire forevermore.


Destruction in creation. And creation in destruction.


There is no ontology of this. No metaphysics. No theory.


Nothing is. Nothing can be. Nothing was. There were never any subjects nor substantives. Nothing began, just as it will not end. There’s nothing complete – nothing finite – nothing the limits of which could be drawn. Nothing that subsists or exists or insists or just plain -sists. Nothing that is or was or will be.


Becoming in becoming. Flux in flux. The river you can’t step in twice – or once – or that you can never step into at all.