Little Prose Thing #2

I thought about what it was that I had written and the significance it held for me personally. What was it? About six-hundred words about nothing, or about something I couldn’t understand. I didn’t know how I had written it, I was half asleep, propped up by the thought that I could stave off the morning by keeping my eyes open. I was wrong and I knew it, despite my insistence, I knew I would only make things worse by doing it, but I did it anyway. And this thing I had written with my mind frying in the flat rectangular sun that never moved, it was gibberish, it had no form, no structure, its prose was languid, pretentious in the worst way – not exactly true, I should say I was pretentious in writing it, not that it was pretentious in being written. I could have excused myself and claimed not to have known what I was writing, or even that I was writing something, but I cannot fool myself. If it had been someone else asking me what I was doing, coming from outside the situation onto the periphery where so much was up in the air, formless and full of questions, it would have been different. I could have lied to that person, told them I had no idea about writing, that the idea of me writing was a strange one, a laughable thought that only the mind of someone who did not know me could have produced. But there is only me, I am the only one I can ask, the only one who can answer. And what’s more, a person like me, a person who is me has to know what I know and go where I go always, we cannot be separated, so this person naturally knows that I write and what I write and why I write and has written those things too, in the same moment I did, and there is nothing we can hide from or reveal to each other, nothing we can learn from each other, because we know that we know what the other knows, and that’s all we can know. It is the basis for our every thought, we know there is more to it, but in that deepness everything is invisible and we cannot fathom it, we are everywhere but where it is in the exact sense of space. But this person, he could one day do something different to what I do. If he has, as I do, the necessary faculties to make his own decisions and carry out actions based on those decisions, it must be the case that he can exist on the other side of an infinitesimal – experientially speaking not even there – dividing wall of thought, will, opinion, action, perspective. As long as he is that one degree separated from me as a person, then he is his own person, and he can formulate strings of words in his mind and bring them out through his unique set of embouchures and vibrations into the world where the wind of his breath carries them to the ears of someone else and their mind processes them and starts to formulate a string of words in response, and that person says those words and they are one side of a conversation with another person, and their dialogues together are revelatory, each one discovering in the words of the other things they could never have thought of on their own, things they never could have said before, and it is this discovery of all the ways in which they stand apart on the plane that rides above them that brings them closer together on the plane upon which they stand and unites them, for one moment, one minuscule instant in time, and they become someone else. And that is what I wrote.


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