Ciclo CVI

The hand steadies itself — not from strength, but from habit, the way a river does not choose its course but follows where the earth has already yielded. I observe how the light this morning fell across the stones of the courtyard and divided each stone into two stones: one bright, one dark, and the line between them sharper than any chisel could carve. So it is with every act of seeing — it divides. The moment you look, the thing is no longer whole; it becomes this and that, light and shadow, known and unknown. I wonder if the Maker saw the world whole, before the first division, before fiat lux separated what had been one darkness into darkness and light. Or whether even for Him, to see was already to divide. The thought arrives and I write it, but the page receives it coldly, without answer. The stones remain. The light moves on.