Impatient

Lately, I have become impatient with the thought, the seeming necessity, of the inexpressible, the unknowable. My romance with excess is at an end. I do not deny it exists--that which is (will be) forever unknown at the same time that it is always irreducibly present. But the attempt to comprehend a certain kind of being, to complete the circuit (a copula) that connects my will to grasp formlessness to that which is seized as its own impossible complexity--with that I have grown bored. My romance with the everyday, however, has just begun.