If you understand that most things that exist do not have names. If you understand that the unbounded is not susceptible to names. Some believe it is worthless to say "most things that exist" because they believe that things only exist if named, if partitioned. If they are ascribed existence. Ascribed. This word means that they are written into existence. But they, the things, exist in the field of potentiality. Unspoken things are still things. Unenacted things are still things.
If we think about the weight of the dark mouth. The dark mouth is the things you almost said but did not. I do not mean the things you spoke to yourself but did not allow into the world. I mean the things, the dark matter of thought, you did not speak or act because fate did not allow you to speak or enact it. Much of your life will be in opposition to the dark mouth. Much of your life will dwell on the dark mouth and the dark hand. Nobody can tell you why this is so.
If I could believe in the structuralism of paragraphs. If I could believe in the sequencing of the DNA of prose. If one believes in this simple islanding of thought in a sea of hidden, "greater" intent. Then one believes in a book. The paragraphs are real, concrete entities. But the book itself is something more. The book is the gestalt of all the pages. It includes the invisible threads you must spin between paragraphs and then the way the ocean itself lies on the earth. The river of reading is the river Meander. There is no true, direct path through any book on earth. Only liars say that. The promise of the book is the promise of wandering.
If you enter the room or I enter the room. Doesn't it make a difference? Depending on our mood. Depending on love. Depending on skill. Who enters the room first? With what intent? Some tiresome people enter rooms constantly. They are assailers of rooms. Some tiresome people are reticent about entering any room. They hang back. They need exhausting coaxing. The idea of the room itself is exhausting! Who is in the room presently? We can't always be sure. The room might be beyond our capabilities to visualize or represent it correctly. We might have to ask others in the room if a certain personage is actually in the room or not. They might be able to see and say with certainty that the person is indeed in the room, whereas you doubted. But then you might insist that some particular person is in the room and several others might vociferously argue with you, correct you, au contraire, that person is not in the room. Then what did you see? A phantom? You saw an actual body. He or she was there. Obviously, this means you do not know the room's true boundaries. Or the room's boundaries have shifted since you last reckoned them. The room is much more phantasmal than the people who may or may not occupy it at any given moment. While you may not acknowledge this fact to yourself, you almost certainly spend many hours of your day focusing on this problem of The Room. Possibly humans are categorical creatures even more than they are emotional creatures. It may very well be that emotions are all, at bottom, issues of categories. A recategorization can often correct even a very horrible emotion.
If the Room of People Whom I Love Who Love Me Back has a door to enter and exit does that make me a healthier person? But what if there is no door? No exit. No entrance. Does that thought scare you? Or does it weirdly comfort you, the way that tyrants may be easily comforted?
If the dark hand slips around your throat when you sleep, when you're dreaming, then you are like everybody else. If the dark mouth sings to you then, how lucky you are. Because there are lost people on this earth whose dark mouth can reach them even in waking hours. They go about the earth strangled by the dark hand. Their real hands cannot pull it away from their throat.
If you can understand that the dark mouth, the dark hand, do not exist in the sense of good or evil. They are capable of either. Their existence points to the provisionality of all existence. Time surely passes differently in their universe. Time may be arrested in the dark mouth, in the dark hand.
If the space of this sentence was sufficient to itself.
If color enters a window in a pronounced way, you are called upon to respond. The window frames something, a sky, which seems to possess a sort of self-knowledge in the form of color. This is an emotional construct. Windows are emotional constructs.
If the dark hand slips around your throat when you sleep, you do not exist in the sense of good or evil. Something is recycling you inside you. That is one way to understand it. There must be a door for even the worst emotions to enter and exit. Even your throat has a door, admittedly a pitiful one. When have you ever seen a truly well-defended mouth? This is why so many resort to dropping the portculis of silence.
If we consider what the dark mouth and the dark hand do when they are not engaging us from that great distance of theirs, a distance which can close instantly to zero, what answer can we give? It is an answer given in the mystical tense. It is the mystical tense of the otherness of being which is not present, past or future tense, nor any of the variations of those tenses.
If we do not understand that we are creating a dark matter self throughout all the days of our existence, we do not acknowledge what it is to be human.
If someone would be temerarious enough to write an autobiography of his or her dark matter-self rather than the one that lived out its days in ordinary matter, what would this sound like? Impossible you say? If justice were done, would it not be nearly infinite in length? The only acts subtracted would be those of the biography proper.
