[In the kitchen, earlier]
A plate breaks.
This discrete joy and driving fatigue hurts when laid against the fact of things.
It is her plate.
Definites, things if you will/want/like, have been contesting our little gauche truths for a while.
I'll sweep it up.
Not the simple game of displacement (a leap to another), nor a concession to subjectivity, but rather the space allowed by the frame of 'you will never know'.
Put it in the bin.
Compaction is a resultant symptom of narrow vision, a petty denial.
I'll take the bin out and go for a walk.
Thought is an unexpected terrain, a cracked pavement and as I fall, I think of the plate and it cannot help now, not now as my knee impacts upon a concrete ridge. Last night's storm is visible in the form of rivulets that run through my hair while bluster touches at my cheeks and the containment of my philosophy has helped no-one, but then it arrives, it really matters for a moment that could be forever and I don't feel the need to get up or accept help.
[In the kitchen, later]
"You seem the same to me."
"Not more… I don't know, lucid and alive through an embrace with existence?"
"Not really, no."
"Are you sure? No change at all?"
"I don't think so."
"I am looking carefully. I see no difference."
"I'm sorry I couldn't see it, I really am, I can see that it is really important to you but, you know... Are you okay?"
"I broke your plate."