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Heroes

"There are no heroes," she said, "and our master is the humblest of them all ..." Yet something about the way the brace of keys clinked against her thigh -- keys on a circular clasp, perhaps, that could not open themselves, even if they opened all the doors, their encumbrance when walking, now that, in their want of freedom, they must drag all things to the floor -- made me realise that everything I thought I had sought for, I had not really sought for now, not really ...

The Secret Life

Doesn't each of us want to say: "But in my secret life, I am the hero." And then, oddly, the realisation: "But the secret life is not about heroes; it's secret precisely because heroes don't exist there."

Origination

The expected sun has risen somewhere upon a usual day, and, looking out the window, we see all the things we have always seen. Does it satisfy you that they are there? What exactly might you be searching for that could be different? And does anything prevent it beyond the fact that everything that happens seems unwittingly to assume the obligation to be believed?

Self-representation

Not the subjects of the picture, but the picture itself: how does the picture represent itself?

Consistency

Consistency is only the sturdy back of failure - the thing upon which we drum our feet when we are seated. For what was true today will not be true tomorrow - not even today: today will not be true tomorrow, either, and therefore the tomorrow that must come must be different from the tomorrow we believe we know now and can reason about. Perhaps it is no more than faith that moves the days -- our being there, to believe.

The Day that Is

However we raise our hands, to spur it on or hold it back, some day all time must arrive at the time that it now is - at which time, time shall represent itself sufficiently only by means of itself, servant only to the audience and end of itself.