I have entered into the nothingness, and it is not a place where I can live.
We might sometimes waken from a dream. Maybe, like a story we will try to tell. His story would be about a woman. Not an Annie Hall woman. Really, an impossible woman. It’d be easy to believe hers was a story that couldn’t be told.
Maybe that is where the best stories begin. In a place where you admit they are stories that can’t be told. The plain sense of it. No lies.
But I stay tired now, and is it a physical exhaustion, or is it ennui—who can say, and who can create in spite of it.
How do you tell the story of a woman to a world that can’t prize mystery and doesn’t understand veils.
I remember the I Ching, and I know this. If you are so foolish as to consult an oracle, do it only once. Ming was my answer. What was his?
And Ming says three things, and all of them are darkness. Bad state of affairs. Need to hide. Stay true to your course.
My course, always, was—.
I have entered into the nothingness, and it is not a place where I can live. Always, I have hidden. Silk veils, and anonymities of silence.
But where is the silence.
Ming gives no hope. How much does a life require hope?
It has always been night. But night will either hold darkness, or it will hold the promise of day.
