I write in the morning, you know. Longhand. Certain things are said then. It is now afternoon and I’m on Tapintoo’s keys, things are being said now, too. Is there something waiting for my attention? What is contained in that invisible just beyond the visible, the external of me? What is contained in me? I am alone, and yet I sense championship.
A part of me waits for my full attention, staying poised to tell me what I will be glad to know. Life supports no emptiness; it is a dialogue with meaning—to me. I’m the one who turns away for I’ve learned to obey a dialogue with less meaning. To my heart, this is a troubling journey. The dialogue with less meaning does not interest me, but I pretend it does. Pretending is a heavy thing.
And so, I write. In the morning and in the afternoon. Things are said. Things with meaning—for me. A small door opens, I feel its warmth and recognize its reassuring light. I brighten all over, inside and out, and then when I rejoin the less meaningful dialogue, I attempt to sprinkle it with hints of what I found when I paid attention elsewhere in the here and now. Today, as I finish this afternoon’s writing, I notice what the flame from my candle is really bringing to my room.
It brings me the bookmark of a Dialogue.