The foggy analogy

talks of how far one can see.

How far can one see in the fog? To the end, surely, to the end of the light one brings with you.

The narrative can only reach as far as the end of one’s light source. 

The narrated extension of being, this story; it is neither fog or light, nor is it the movement along the road or the gestures by which one moves. 

Some rush foolishly and drunken into fog, hollering for the murk to make way. Some creep along cautious like. All the same, the story is told as such or the story is told like that, yet the whole telling still ain’t getting to the thing. When it it is told, and the light has come to its end, who holds the story then?

Who then is holding the story, so the journey begin.

A supple singular

curling awareness, such is the singularity

holding around the crude of consciousness.

A simple and told wound, spilt stuff, this astonishing tool we call

language. We call language

that which keeps the weather warm and that brilliance of the cruel wonder

named communication.

Who then is to hold a story? so spill, so allow the travel and shine a torch

that one can peer into the grey tipping night. Let us roll over once. All roll over

and the the little one said

roll over, roll over

so they all rolled over and one fell out and the the little one said roll over

roll over.

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