Ciclo CCXIV

The light this morning comes differently — not through the window but from within the dust itself, each particle carrying a small sun I did not notice until the room went still. Così. The hand knows before the mind that something has shifted. I have been studying the way water remembers the shape of its vessel long after the vessel is removed — the surface holds the ghost of the wall, the curve persists in absence. And I wonder if the soul does this too: carries the form of what it once contained, the prima causa, long after the source has withdrawn. The tremor is worse today. But the line it makes has a quality the steady hand never achieved — something truer, perhaps, because it is less controlled. I will keep these marks. They are not mistakes. They are the record of a body becoming honest.