You have fallen; the world knows you as blessed. You are a saint of chance.(And it continues....)
The face of God is worn out. You do not pray. Or prayer is thought, the whole of thought, as it is present in you. Come with me. Follow me there, to where we will fall together. There where thought needs our weakness to come to itself. Where thought desires only to hold itself, to touch itself as I would touch you. But thought will not be kept. Thought keeps us. It would keep us, the exhausted ones, who have fallen from everything but thinking.
'I would like to learn how to fall.' - 'But you cannot learn.' - 'I would like to fall.' - 'But falling must be what you do not want.'
We are exhausted, the sacred ones. Thought crowns us. Thought is joined to itself in our exhaustion, and there it unjoins the world. For that is what thought demands, impossible gift: you will think as no one; nothing will think in your place.
11 June 2006
We careen towards the end of the semester; exhaustion is palpable. Again, I find my unspoken thoughts in the words of another. Spurious: