Eternity

Would you like to work what is written here into publishable form? To join post to post as fragment to fragment to make a larger whole? Perhaps there is another experience of the fragment that forbids this whole – a desire that asks for a kind of forgetting that would interpose itself between post and post. A margin – white space, and not simply that which would divide blocks of prose on the page.

A margin in time, as though between each post, each entry, there was an interval so vast that everything was lost therein. An interval, a desert greater than the Biblical one, that takes not forty days to cross, nor forty years, but more than the whole of time. Time loses itself there – or is it space? The becoming eternal of space, the becoming infinite of time: eternity, infinity, interposes itself before and after the post.

But doesn’t it, too, pass through the posts themselves? Doesn’t it allow itself to mark itself there, to set beginning adrift into the non-beginning, and the future into what will not come about. It will not end, that which did not begin: desire to write, and to sacrifice the desire to finish anything, or to work what is written here into a finished whole.

The inexhaustible: write from that weariness for which the end is impossible. Bear in it the post that turns aside the post. The date at its bottom is not the date. Or it is what lets it ring out, lost, in eternity.