I would like to work, say that. I would like to begin, say that. Tiredness can be greater than we are. Or that what we are emerges out of a prior field, a kind of ocean that floods up, returns, when our hold on ourselves has gone. I think that is part of what it means to be alone: not to have others who address you, and call you from that vague drifting. Others who call you to attention, awakening you from that other waking state into which you fall. In which, alone, another awakens in your place. Or is it that your vagueness spreads you open like a picnic blanket, out beneath the sky?
To work, then. To think, there where thoughts need the form of the 'I' to support them. But there are other thoughts, I know that - or someone else in me knows, where knowledge is only opening, unfolding - thoughts that are of that same unfolding, thoughts like clouds that drift without you. Mist-thoughts that have not coalesced. And I think their condition, too, is a kind of solitude, in which, somehow, you are not alone. Or not, at least there to be alone, no one wandering in your place.
Where another knows, and another thinks. Or that knowledge and thinking are each shaken out like a sheet to be tucked freshly round a mattress. Then how to speak of the other thought, the other knowing? How to bring it to speech, to let it bring you there, like the spread sail of a land-yacht, or the great sails that will, some say, catch the solar wind and bear us between the stars?
To let speak a kind of desolation, an exposure. Solitude without consciousness, blank absence, anaesthesised space ... but these formulations will not do. How to speak of an absolute concretion, or a thought that is the opposite of abstract? How to think a universal that is one with matter, with all that is?
I will tell you how I imagine it. Days pressed upon days. Days congealed with other days, hours stuck to other hours. Each day a gauzy veil through which the other days are seen. One day like another, the same routine. One like another until time breaks from chronology, until it separates itself like an ox-box lake or an eddy. Time that turns in the same day, eternally. The same as it returns as this day, as all the others.
Yes, that is how I see it, as I hear its dull murmur. As I hear all the days like sheets rustling on a washing line in the wind. All the days, and everything that happened, stirred by a wind that moves through them equally. A wind like a ripple or a wave. A single wave that crosses all at once, the wind that bows the heads of corn.
So are my days brushed by the eternal. So does eternity make my days bow their heads, humbled. And now I imagine great bells that ring out from the heart of time, there where time does not turn, and one day is like all the others. Bells that sound only to the solitary, in separated rooms, in flats, cast out on the ocean like waterlogged rafts.