Delay

Passages in Weariness

I don’t know how it used to happen before but in my time, what arrives, arrives in the past. Time was here, long before me. This knowledge is a symptomatic revelation, a dried scab that tells me; I am/was here.

Meaning is always delayed, why delay it further? Why the Beckettian spirals, Gertrude’s sulking and Joyce's orchestrated collapse? I cannot drive, leave alone any desire to accelerate. I also don’t understand first the meaning, then the need to delay something that’s promised to arrive. I started with a point and I will end like one, a constant. Like a word with deferred meaning. It isn’t in the word, nor the syntax. It is offset. What happened, happened long ago.

Now it lies scattered between the words, pages, paper and the constant flights. The point has been postponed until the next point in the flow. Cogito is a differance machine. Time is always late, always delayed and untimely. Meaning is always delayed, but there's a narrow window to find the area under the curve in which the stillness of the point can be approximated. That’s as close one can go to death without dying. Language catches the death pants down when it delays the knowledge. Language/knowledge is that flash that gives a brief glimpse of the elephant in the room.

Such miserable business being a writer; to cut flesh with air between the the hand and the words. Such fraud to live for the love of it. Such a beautiful disposition.