The Thumb and Forefinger, not Touching

Nothing is not nothing coiled like a slither of air between the bottleneck of my body and the spiralling carvations of the cork that is my head and spine. It's nothing that I want to put words to, some measure of understanding that I can take out and put outside of my chest and onto a forward surface so that I can look at it, see it. It's nothing that I want to remove, sever as if a limb, but then not really because I want not to bleed heavy blood, because I think it would be blood of weight. It feels weighted when it courses, unnecessarily so but, perhaps weighted because I've weighed it down with repetitions of the same word. So now it has become a product and the mind is just talking about heavy blood.

The scapegoat. Nothing is the scapegoat. And the words that come to dominate and appear as if bearing meaning, are not with thoughtchild. They are scapegoat scapegoats. Peel back the placental layer and I get what's past nothing, the beyond difficulty with which to express. 

This coiling is like a writhing trying to curl into tangible emotion, something pickable from a dictionary, something of the matter of a referent. Even if it doesn't quite reach that point of isness, the pre-isness itself ought still be a referent, but it's just harder to point to. That's why I want to incarnadine it. And I know it's not it, yet, but it must be something. Just because I don't know how to name something does not mean it isn't it. The coiling is a mass, a nebula, an oh-look-going-on-stuff(then proceed to flail hands) - but I just don't know how to show before, how to show a before with pointers and flashing lights which I have none of.

My hands are not enough that I resort to mental abstract images of space and expansion and contraction and intangible things that are microscopically tangible. This is probably the process of the mind trying to turn in on itself, turning in on itself. There are layers, and stairs in an optical illusion climbing up from the first floor to the bottom floor, except there are different dimensions, no floors, but I can walk up and down and get to in betweens and feel like I am somewhere but there's no corners in the room to call that place a room and there are no horizons to call that place a field or an open area so I'm just at that crossroads inverted comma helix. 


And here I find myself alone.