Noon

Was that the morning? Was that it, the morning? Was that it, promise of the day, beginning of the new day: the morning? What happened, then? Why did you get up so early, then? Why that urgency, why get up so early, then? What was it you were waiting for? For what were you looking forward? What was to arrive in the morning and by way of the morning? What were you hoping for in the dawning of the day, in the morning?

A cure – is that what you wanted? Lightness – is that what you wanted? But there was no cure, and no lightness. No cure – and the whole weight of the day, of what did not begin as the day, pinned you to the bed. Do not rise. Fail to rise. Nothing is coming; do not rise, give up on the hope of its rising. It will not come, there is nothing to begin; the future cannot be reached here – give up. Lie down, then; admit it: you’re ill, and there’s only illness. Admit it – there is illness and nothing but illness.

Give up – nothing’s coming. Give up, it is not coming, it will not come. The coming day – is that what you’re waiting for? It will not come. You’ll never get up. Lightness – is that what you want? But there’s only heaviness. The cure – is that what you want? But there is only the illness of the non-beginning, the oldest illness, the heaviest illness. Fail to rise. Give up.