Lens #432

There is a scrambling up ahead that barely registers from where I stand. The figure looks solid but of course everything is re-aranging. And when I put my hand out to touch, filaments cohere around it like a kind of glove that darts this way and that disassembling and collecting as my hand swipes the air, then comes to rest. That is when I notice that the figure is indeed solid whenever I find the capacity to keep still. It hugs around my rough shape, slotting into place like a deck of cards, the scales of a fish, the roof of a house. Otherwise in movement when continuous and of a certain speed, I am no more solid than it. There is an intemingling, a porosity all the way through so that the very word that would suggest the possibility of something otherwise- a containments of sorts, is out of the question. In such moments everything can be re-phrased but try to put it in any kind of order before it is set and my hand goes right to the mid-line, then splinters into instances that gradually dissolve. Only after a good sleep when everything again descends is the hand dug out like some overdue truffle deep in the earth that may infact after all, never be found.