I’ve come to understand this about writing:
it is the inaccuracies—
the imperfect reach,
the difficulty—
that make room for presence.
Here,
time and image
meet.
I ask myself
whether I am speaking in order,
whether my thinking
holds its shape.
But order
does not always move
in a straight line.
The pace shifts.
One can stay
with a thing,
linger,
and still arrive—
elsewhere,
another moment,
another day.
Reading
forms
an inner image.
It must be allowed
to remain unfinished.
Its force
depends
on what is missing.
What emerges
comes not in spite
of the gap,
but because of it.
The point is not
to love the image,
nor even what it does,
but what it makes possible:
something
that can be held
without panic.
This is why
we return—
again and again—
to test
what we think
we understand.
Over time,
a deeper continuity
forms.
People
come closer
to themselves.