enough

Here we are, arrived at another end… but it is only another sunset. I’ve wandered a long way from the beginning. I’ve said enough or I’ve said too much or I haven’t said enough or I can never say enough or I didn’t say it clearly enough or I didn’t say it unclearly enough. I’m stuck on the problem of enough and the particular hunger of never enough.¹ Hunger of naming and accumulation, the hunger of flexing and annihilation. Success to please the belly; success for the sake of the belly’s confounding size (its magnificent ironic complexity); success so that the belly may know greater speeds. With every newly released dimension, the hunger of never enough is stretched further, somehow. The belly appears to have no limits, or at least, no limits that our soft eyes can see. Through a tear, those limits (if they exist) are blurred into an even vaguer oblivion. But the tear is not just a lens to look through—the tear is a limit itself. The tear is a limit that clings to the eye. A material sacrifice for an immaterial belly or an immaterial sacrifice for a material belly. The tear is a limit that is rolled down the face by the dogma of gravity. The limit falls, grazes the belly, and splashes on to another limit. Through a tear, the ground is just a color.

The language of never enough stimulates the appetite. The feast of efficiency. The banquet of the silent but whirring, perfectly fluid, glass morsels. Identified, catalogued, named. The unpredictable heart, stuck in its hysteric loops, is pressed into a slim vertical chamber; the valves replaced with logic gates, the mists replaced with vacuum.

• Redundancy was never loved.

Every motion in honor of never enough brings me closer to the end. The end comes swiftly and efficiently. The end has never hidden itself from us. Yet, it seems I must become two things in this conspiracy of the end: one who turns the screw and one who distracts from the turning screw. Attention exists to be harvested and I am to be one its harvesters. To be the fool that lies down to rest is not permissible—not unless it is performed.

I am caught now in the act of doing what I ought not to do. I dance myself to death.

I’m sorry…

I have misplaced myself countless times throughout my life, borne on winds and floods of dogma. A feedback loop of the dogma of others and the shadows of myself.

I collapse myself. I cancel myself. I tuck myself into a corner. Maybe, instead, the end-goal is fatigue, not transcendence. Maybe a secret is enough. Maybe, sometimes, enough is: