ending

If there was only one of anything, it would be the end of the world.¹

Here we are, arrived at the End. Foretold in our stories and our physics; presaged on street corners and all along the ever-descending, ever-ascending tower of the Timeline. Fixated on endings, fixated on solutions and destinations, fixated in general.

​With this perspective, it is evil to get distracted, to go off, to seek elsewhere, outside—but fixation is a distraction in another sense. Fixation and certainty are just the physics of dogma—and I often find myself vigorously rowing my boat down the rapids of dogma, toward the logical end.

Like so many, I fixate on the apocalypse. Apocalypse as the death of love. Love as a dark thing; a cave untethered from time. Not evil, not good, not stable, but moving, from between my fingers.

Love as worrying; Love in the big sense; Love as the secret language, resting, obscured by impossibly dense mists, in the hearts of the star, the stone, the human, the cat, the atom…

• Love as an ungraspable tremor.

Forgive me for all this talk about love. I have misplaced it. Misplaced it with language; misplaced it with truth; misplaced it in a twist of time.