Suspense

This notion that the world is awry, that things are in crisis - where does it come from? I think it is a secret sense. Somewhere in the distance, there is a knot of air, somewhere in the far distance. It is anonymous. It may unknot itself, or not, become momentous. In some further time, or planet. Must we await it?

We must. Suspense is working its way into us. Worm, or contagion. How it wishes to furl its flag, restrain a voice. See, it says, the world is full of signs! The way the curtains hang in the time before a breeze; or how the sky is strangely placid; or why there are no birds here...

Unseen, waters tug gently at a shore. Somewhere in the far distance. But this is a pattern, merely, in the mind. A stillness in and of itself, fruit of the germ of stillness. The germ is in the mind, the secret is in the mind.

So it is thought, and so it continues.