Writing is what looks away from you; it shows no interest. Its perspective is given from elsewhere; it sees from an angle you cannot access. Is it watching? Are its eyes open? It sees all; its eyes are open in all that is written, like light that flashes back the sky from the sea. It sees – but what does it see? What sees itself in the tide of words as it flashes light upwards and away?
The parent watches the child, but writing does not watch you. The lover’s gaze rests upon the beloved, but writing watches no one, and watches where no one has his place. I will take your place, says writing. I’m going to take your place. And so does it watch from you, by taking your place. So does it open its eyes in your own, and your eyes reflect back the sky; so do they become voided of what you might see.
Vision minus itself. Light subtracted from light. ‘I can’t see you’. – ‘But I, seer, see in you’. – ‘I can’t see you’. – ‘But I, seeing, have voided your sight’.
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