The pen ceases to write; the nib ceases to scratch at the paper, the ink dries and is blotted, the manuscript is closed and put away; and as this happens the words no longer flow, mouthed but not spoken, and no longer echo in the mind; and the prior concepts (if there are such) and cumulating arguments and obsevations are put to rest, and the book of the mind is returned to the shelf and the window of sensation is closed and shuttered: but the thing remains, shackled, caged and gagged, but still … still … open it and release, blinking at the light and idiotic from the isolation, the captive shade, reeling and inchoate, but still almost recognizable for the flash and spark of intellection it once was; and, challenged, it undertakes to grapple with the unfamiliar mind and, protean, it is transformed, many times, and wears a new face, and, raging, is freshly jailed and blotted, closed, and shelved, and put to rest, screaming.
0 Responses to “Stilling”