Meaning, meaning, it is lacking in everything. How can anyone do anything without feeling like they are hanging on the edge of cliff, in the evanesce
nt air of the end of this world, about to fall in no specific direction, to fall still? The very idea of falling makes no sense in the vast universe; directionless, we are aimless, senseless, meaningless. I look at the sky, the wide empty openness. What is it to look at emptiness? Is it really a glance? Is it just disappearing. I look at inanimate objects, what constitues my life now, the piano, the dead flowers, the lamp, the embroidered shawl hanging on the wall, and I wonder why the world is so calm, why it goes on, since it has no purpose. It could collapse, implose at any moment it would be natural and unsurprising.
I think I should cry. But there is such a gap between what I feel and my need to express it. That distance - indifference - is so normal now. Why cry, why express anything? I stand alone, every day alone, wandering amongst the hours - it is noon, now it is 6 in the morning, now it is dusk, an hour less moment, filled with angst and a fear of nothing specific. Just this dread, a sort of vertigo pulling from every direction, the impression that the world is about to fall. I wait.