Everything appalls me, I think. The whole lot, it’s terrible, I think. That it can even continue, I think. That one moment can succeed another, I think, and inwardly shake my head. The temerity. When there’s no reason in this succession. Just a horrible lurching forward, I think. Because away somewhere it’s all already dead, I think.
Somewhere away from here, death’s already one, it’s all dead, it’s all over. Only here – somehow – it’s still not known, that everything’s dead. Still not quite known, still not quite figured out – but it’s dead, all dead, there’s nothing to begin, and nothing even to end. Just nothing – and not even that. No relief. The absence of nothing, that’s it. The very fact of continuance, that’s it.
Of time, I think. Of that eternal optimism. Of the minute that succeeds the minute. The ticking forward. It’s a disgrace, I think. It’s all dead, I think, all already, and a long time ago. Somehow it hasn’t reached here, that it’s all dead. Somehow, no one’s heard, and life’s continuing. It’s miraculous, I think. It’s all dead, and there are still minutes, and hours, and all that. Time moving on. The moving on moving on – it’s a disgrace, really. It’s baffling.
I’m hungry, I think. I should boil some water, I think. And isn’t it incredible, just that: hunger. Just that: the stove, and a pan, and a flame, and water. And heating up. Hunger’s optimistic, I think. Hunger ranges ahead of you, I think. Thank God for it, hunger, I think. It joins up minute to minute, I think. And that’s all you need really, I think. Some forward movement.
I’m going to boil some water. Put some rice in the pan. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do. Because I’m hungry. And that’s what’s getting me from minute to minute. Time’s pulled taught again. Time’s moving forward again, minute to minute.
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