"The sun is an eye. Its coming means that the boulder rolls away from the front of the cave and we are set free. Yet I am still night-foundered, blind so much of the time.
Later. I'm done with daylight. It reeks of carbonized toast crumbs left behind after breakfast, of the kind of bright decor that hides a congenital blindness to what is real. Today in my house, with no lights, no water, only a view of the darkness outside from the darkness within, from the unlighted room of the mind and the unheated room of the heart, I know that what is real only comes together in darkness, under the proscenium of night's gaunt hood.
It also occurs to me that the real and the imagined have long since fused here. Truths are relative to the imagination that invents them. It's not the content of experience that we end up with, but the structure of how we know something.
In the next few days there is more daylight, three or four hours at least. Not bright, but enough to read by - that has become my measuring stick. Tomorrow the sun will peep over the ridge, then disappear. Now I don't want it to come. I've grown accustomed to the privacy and waywardness of night. In daylight all recognitions turn out to be misconceptions. During one of my naps I dream that I can hear the sun beating behind the rocky peninsula like an expectant heart."
I consider this. I am grateful for this day of darkness. I stretched it on my own loom today, and reveled in it, and tomorrow I will revel in the return of the light.
