“The other one, the one called Borges, is the one things happen to.” Jorge Luis Borges
I lack balance.
It is light out there. I can’t see or hear, having no senses, but I sense it nevertheless. An intuition and a feeling pervades my soul (if indeed I am a soul) and stretches to infinity before it folds back onto itself, a layered unity of my thought.
But this is all in here and all very dark.
It is cold out there. Shapes have definition, flavors, atoms are huddled together for warmth. Warmth contained in things, specific things. Like lace. Or an ear of corn. It is delicate and elegant.
Elegance is frigid.
It is finite out there. There is no infinity and unity. Only finite things, conceived and contrived and singular. Like a finite tree. That is to say, there is a space past the highest tip where there is no more tree.
In here the trees are infinite. There is no space to which the tree does not extend, even if you cannot see it. (Which I cannot.)
And yet, I am in a contrived space, a vaulted ceiling I uphold. My knowing is infinite, or my soul (if indeed I am a soul) but my knowledge is not. It is restricted to as much as she senses, out there. I only know as much as I know. Which is as much as she senses. It is a womb of safety, and restriction.
She reads Borges, I feel Borges. She writes Borges. I feel Borges. My feeling carries me through him, next to him. We sit and look at each other. Not with eyes, I don’t have eyes. But with intuition. Shall I work diligently until he comes through?
I only know as much as she senses. She – as much as I feel. Together we sit next to Borges.
But this is so out of balance.
Outside, that is where things happen. That is where things exist. That is where things are loud and heavy. Sweet and bright. In here is where they are felt, understood, processed, where the infinite tree is stretched.
I long for balance.
I would like some of that light. She would like some of this dark. To bring a little cold in here. To guide a little warmth out there. Light, shadow. Senses and intuition. To be able to see, not feel. And to be able to feel, not see. I find action, she finds repose or the apposite action.
We find self.
I feel, if I could make a small aperture . . . with a knife, I could let out the dark. I could let out heat. It would flow and pool until it saturated.
I could let in light. It would flood and flow. I would see and hear and taste and know. She could travel the endless paths of the infinite tree, seeing her way and upholding the darkness with her sight.
If only I could achieve balance.
I cannot. I cannot make an aperture. I cannot hold a knife. There is no knife.
Perhaps it is better this way. Perhaps it is the best we can do. Perhaps this is self, after all.
To keep up to date with all the latest news enter your email below.