... And I was speaking, but you did not hear. I was speaking from further
than your furthest bounds ... From deeper than the rent you made to reveal
the darkest part -- the black, the white, or the red ...
And it was not that I was withholding myself from you, but that you did not
know where to find me. You searched and searched for me, in you ... But
how could it ever be reached if, in that quest, once again you wanted
yourself as you already are?
But is the body always the same? Can we fix it in one self-same form?
Does it not wither when it has to keep to one appearance? Is not mobility
its life?
I love you for being that diamond, which I am too. But how can we continue
to live if we cling to that hardness? Unless we resort to expedients? If
we are living, how can we be pure crystal? And if your thinking aspires
to the realm of crystal, how can we survive in it? How can I abandon my
love of the vegetal? Would you become a plant? Or are you too attached to
yourself to become anything at all?
And what does it signify, this attraction of yours for the mineral? A triumph
over expansion through the cosmos? A means of avoiding change? Your need for
mastery?
And why should night and day be so radically divided? Is there anyone for
whom loving and thinking are lived as different beginnings? ... Would I have
to spend my days with the one and my nights with the other ...?
Return to words, words and more
words.