Heavy with homesickness for being. In my heaviness the moment passes me by. I’m looking for it in these scattered words. Is it looking for me too, the moment, calling me into itself? Does it need my words to come to itself? But it’s been and gone and I’m passing my time in detours. Then – miracle – the words come together and lift me into it, the silent moment.
Everyone carries a room about inside him. This fact can even be proved by means of the sense of hearing. If someone walks fast and one pricks up one's ears and listens, say in the night, when everything round about is quiet, one hears, for instance, the rattling of a mirror not quite firmly fastened to the wall.
Notes for a fragmentary novel entitled The Moment, linked at the top of the page.
- Follow Notes from a Room on WordPress.com