What remains opaque in how you study the world?
Says the shadow: the person under the duvet under their tangle of yarn; her name lives in the folds made by her incessant circling on the surface imprinting her wanders like the coastal stones that make you forget how to walk, in slanted / in buckled/ in dancing forms your name
drops and because I move in flux with you I also drop your name, luckily the covers remember and fumble uuhndruhhuhhh back in dreams disguising it differently every time: an orca, the Yaxche, a stone tiger, crushed stones, slanted landscapes, a small bird.
I witness her thoughts wound round and around the room—endlessly, tirelessly, picking, cutting, reknotting, and squinting so intensely she traps herself inside her eyes.
A pulse emerges
And the letters on the pages and the words from all the voices she thought she knew turned into this heavy choir of uhhh’s. This closed-eyed sensing had her whole body flushed in swirls.
A pulsing releases
through breath and hums interweaving with the squacks of the seagulls and the chirps of robins reciting alongside the drumming rain and her put-put heart.
The movement of the yarn always unravelling nearby. Running directionlessly around her until she’s sealed in a cocoon materialized by her own mind.
It’s midsummer that revealed uuuhhhndreuhhs under-duvet thoughts. These marching swirls, having taught her whole body, now unfurled, hung, opened, closed, tensed, braided, knotted, wrapped in an incoherent web. I am born from this, she weaves within it. A language felt and thought by tugs and pulls: a resistance an instinct.
But this is inside my room, a cave of sorts, it’s outside where the beginning ingredients are untangled to pure fluff. Where the supposedly fine detail is made a general assumption, and outside her room’s web is smoothed out into something legible. This tangled sentipensamiento resists pure “visual intake”, as it’s only just a corner of an infinite.
This knotting is a split second of other split second knottings; a blink, a looping-on-duvet-fold, or the own instant movements of my shadow and the shadow-maker’s. It speaks flux and imagination, an endless feeling which just so happens
to be opaque.
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