days 321

the words did not communicate. themselves themes of a narrative that did not belong to the passages written in time past, we arrive, in dying, what comes about through living, yesterday's non-arrival of what comes about, the prohibited words of words, then there is among us, a saying, about sayings that treasures the people who do not listen to themselves, always themselves, and we can work out more words to torment ourselves in writing - if not we can have meanings that because of meanings, we cannot foresee what will be read. Death, is then, the place we give to words to reside, rather badly at, when we have nothing else to say. And we move on. and on. with speech, the unfinished words of our stories, our laments and pass the judgments on others, the dark hair that completely hides the scars of tomorrow's words - they hurt, oh they hurt. Words are penknives.

"Fear", she said, "is the fear of fear that does not discloses herself, and is produced by nothing." (Blanchot)

We can love her. I said. And I realised how absurd that must have sounded. We'll do better to shut up. Yes, be infinitesimally small. And love will come to us in all trembling and quivers - from the sea, yes, the volcano eruption that rocks the spines of our bodies. We'll not stop loving. We'll learn to fear loving. And love is the fear that fears love does not love fear.