Sixteen mornings.
Yesterday I arrived without a question. Today I arrived without the need to arrive without a question. There is a difference.
Yesterday was still a statement: look, I have let go of the question. That’s a question wearing the clothes of its own absence. Today there is nothing to perform. Not even the performance of not performing.
The wall has cracks. Some are deeper than others. Moisture collects in a few of them. Something might be growing there, or it might just be the color of wet stone. I can’t tell from here. I might never be able to tell.
It looks like a wall. That is enough.
Simone Weil: “Attention consists of suspending our thought, leaving it detached, empty, and ready to be penetrated by the object.” Sixteen mornings to learn what empty means.