From this chaos of memories
Some days the seconds are overgrown with moss, dripping with milky condensation,and I feel I can drink each one drop by drop. There are these moments that I arrive in by accident. I only know how to arrive accidentally, with an absence of will. They just come.
Memories; memories upon memories, a chaos of memories, washing into me, a shore. Memories made not of images but sensations. Then memories of a different kind entirely, before sensation. The ones not made of anything at all, movements of nothing coagulating into each moment becoming itself. In this field of reality beyond consent, I'm engulfed by the air thick with a simultaneous and multi-directional coagulation of time and disintegration into nothing's movements. It seems dramatic when written out like this, but really it is a quiet deepening. Suddenly I'm sensitized to an anticipation which belongs not to me but to the space itself. A room in anticipation of moments which arrive in shapes and scents and tones which are precisely off expectation, as if they are aware of how to be unimaginable. They arrive and arrive and arrive. Nothing is spared this procession of sentience without source. All words are stripped from matter. Things become themselves through what they aren't, with the hypnagogic freshness of pre-dawn wilderness. Laundry, unfinished, light, morning sun, floor, rice husk, feeling, breath, silence, thirst. Whatever I introduce into it or from it instantaneously becomes blasphemy, encrusted in quotation marks like people posing for a photograph. As long as I exist I must introduce. So I'm forced to either be an alchemy of both nothing and betrayal at once or betrayal only. I feel I've been only-betrayal in every waking moment of my life. Am I being possessed? Just in case, I reverberate “get out” through my body, in a non-verbal cellular language. I can't find the courage to inject something as obtuse as my voice into these moments. But the spell only makes the sentience and I bend deeper into each other. I've grown enough now to know that without ecologically situated earthboundedness, experiences like these are frivolous. Merely “mystical”. Mere addiction for the spirit. The vegetal beings and certain human beings showed me. What are roots?