in exhaustion we let our thoughts wander, seeping through consciousness like a brook of freshwater. when do these thoughts become important enough to be written, when do they break out of the confines of the boundaries of nothingness and syntax, enough to be shared and convoluted on white space - thoughts before bed, the time we allow ourselves to be unconscious, exhaustion exuding through pores and its place dreams take up space. sleep sleep sleep but still worries us - tomorrow, through the rotary of the wheel our legs lead us, sit for us, stand for us, walk for us: but is it really us they're doing it for?
problematic of the writer with faith, for to believe and believe in are simple to the one who can. Elizabeth Costello, why is it so hard? justify yourself, don't exhaust me, stand before mock judges and say, "the childhood frogs i made up, vegetarianism is to save my soul." or is that too simple a road, is faith never so black and white, is unbelief so leisurely? let us h-o-w-l with the ugliness of time who through alarm clocks wake us and remind us time is out. the book is done, but the words repeat themselves over and over and over -
as in exhaustion our minds wander - easy, simple, sleep.
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