Thinking

I don’t think I know how to go about it.

I sit at the edge of the water. As if this were the right place for learning to think.

As if it were enough to sway with the current. Or indecision? Stay? Walk away? Give in to the horizontal or a quick push upright? Do I hope that if I can’t walk I might yet, like Parkinson patients, be able to dance?

My brain’s incessant activity seems fruitless. It can’t be thinking. I put it on paper to encounter it outside myself. An obstacle. A wall with a grain, with pores where I might discover a pattern. Then I’m recalled to my body by legs as if pricked by needles.

How can I think when I can’t even see, night falling swiftly, shifting around me like water. Can one look at nothing and hope for help?

Is it a matter of rocking with the dark? Monotonously? But I’m speeding or slowing down the long lane where thinking gets lost in layers of dust, failing precision. Failing to see, to embrace. The gulls circling. The vast empty space. Traffic noise borne in on the wind.

Should I take off my clothes, nudity being power? But would I know my body scattered among memories? Impossible to hold in the mind all at once.

I doubt that I can escape doubt.

 If I let the night invade my eyes, all the way to the horizon? As if it had a body? Might I then see the cause of my not seeing? It might be a beginning.