The Light is Another Form of Darkness

Insisting others read Wittgenstein or Husserl is not where it's at, not anymore. It's possible the gift isn't for being a pretentious asshole but rather this ability to see all sides, to share in all sides. We really are composed of wow. In the end, it doesn't matter if there is "many" or "one-appearing-as-many" because you are still bound to response, and your response is bound to love. See if it isn't so! Hours pass on the highway, the moon disappears in thickening clouds, and the only voice I hear is the only voice I ever hear. Shall we gather at Emily Dickinson's grave and leave a sheath of daisies? Shall we study in the hay loft, completing the other's sentences? Shall we undress carefully and give attention to what remains at this late - but not too late - juncture? I know that longing for the light is another form of darkness but still. Look at these hands, look at this tongue. Look at this museum I can't quite leave behind. It is as though I am writing - writing writing - as if my life - or someone's life - depended on it.