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Nov. 15th, 2003 02:40 pmI am not a person in a world in time. I am a thought in a person in a world in time. I am continuous, no thought will supplant me; though I am sometimes half-convinced there is at least one other, here inside. I fill all the space I have access to. The walls, though, open and close. Sometimes I rush down hallways opening for seven evers before me; sometimes nine of these at once. Sometimes I am trapped in the smallest of spaces, as curled into myself as lead, breathing lead. This sense of compression is the best argument I know against the qualm that I might myself be only the space I fill. Most often I am several rooms connecting through doors or cracks or shattered corners. The openings and shiftings come mostly sideways, but ups and downs change me most and are my prime concern. What vexes me is how my control comes and goes: sometimes walls open wherever I push, sometimes they pull open of their own accord and lead me into undesired naked novelty. Sometimes they stay where they are for days while I fancy myself fermenting. Now and then, just now and only then, a surface recedes from my merely brushing it, and I realize I have the knack again. I go mad with expansion, kicking walls outward in all directions with a force begetting more force, all limits receding infinitely from me with infinite acceleration. I drink every freedom.
Whether I am wholly whole or wholly apart in this state, I am certain of one thing: there is always a turning. This is the only way I know to describe it. One instant I am clean, or so packed with dirt as to have the clean of dirt; the next all is wrong, my world is fear. I scan in panic the 12,960 degrees of my loneliness for the limit I spurned last, and chase it down, after efforts almost self-murdering. I cling to it and wrap myself inside it. There is a sleep or perhaps a split somewhere and I emerge enclosed once more, held in place by walls of loved solidity, resentful of what openings still occur, new doublings of my shaken being. But in those like me accustom precedes boredom and it is soon the limits I resent, the openings that I live for. Each new gallery, though only while opening, has its own fragrance, its own coloring and furniture unlike anything previous. Even when I have been there before. Some, the best chambers, open back into themselves for hundreds of ages, somehow opening always into the same differences, somehow always new and always opening upward into themselves. These console me while I pine increasingly for freedom.
Whether I am wholly whole or wholly apart in this state, I am certain of one thing: there is always a turning. This is the only way I know to describe it. One instant I am clean, or so packed with dirt as to have the clean of dirt; the next all is wrong, my world is fear. I scan in panic the 12,960 degrees of my loneliness for the limit I spurned last, and chase it down, after efforts almost self-murdering. I cling to it and wrap myself inside it. There is a sleep or perhaps a split somewhere and I emerge enclosed once more, held in place by walls of loved solidity, resentful of what openings still occur, new doublings of my shaken being. But in those like me accustom precedes boredom and it is soon the limits I resent, the openings that I live for. Each new gallery, though only while opening, has its own fragrance, its own coloring and furniture unlike anything previous. Even when I have been there before. Some, the best chambers, open back into themselves for hundreds of ages, somehow opening always into the same differences, somehow always new and always opening upward into themselves. These console me while I pine increasingly for freedom.
