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between one obligation and the next, one feels it: an ache for silence, a craving to fall in a stillness so perfect it will be amplified to thunder; plunging into the silence, swimming in it, emerging cleansed, but the longing curdles as quickly as it arrives. What remains in a day assembled almost entirely from…
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fills with memory, fear, and hope; the mind, disengaged from itself, restores what it believes to be the necessities of the day… © KD.W.Heim
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A teardrop trembles at the precipice of a lower eyelid. It concentrates the day’s sorrows, refracts them, and at last escapes, a single jewel sliding down the skin. But what then, as it falls, does the teardrop itself feel? Is it possible that the crystalline body, which is nothing but condensed sadness, might harbour its…
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its true nature in the static of the everyday, the noise of the unremarkable. Yet, the one who insists on looking beyond what is merely apparent, finds the meaningfulness of absence, the power of what is unsaid…. © KD.W.Heim
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a willingness to lose oneself entirely: in the recursive folding of thoughts, the meticulous distillation of sensation, the countless revisions of an idea until it glows not with its light but with the light of every element it once contained. This labour is invisible; it appears as aimless meditation, or a kind of idleness, but…
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is not in the lines, but in the spaces between, the negative shaped by the positive, the hush that follows a note. To draw out those silenced harmonics, to give voice to the occluded, requires a patience that can border on obsession or, perhaps, sanctity… © KD.W.Heim
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and forgotten? Who remains, when the theatre of recollection is shuttered for the night, and even the actors have stepped out into the cold, blank street? Reason stirs, a faint echo, but cannot quite attach to the world as before. The body breathes, the blood moves, colour, sound and scent arrive unheralded, but the mind…
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by memories or thoughts, a gaze that falls upon the world as if for the first time, unmediated by the sediment of experience, free from the slow accumulation of disappointment or delight. The tree is itself, not an archetype. The sky is an utter blue, not a repository for longing, not a vault for prayers.…
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not as a solitary engine of consciousness but as a node in the great, breathing weave, a self that is beautiful precisely because it is never finished, always being rewritten by wind, by hunger, by other selves brushing past… © KD.W.Heim
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a slippery, errant story made up of half-remembered facts and wilful inventions. But some say it’s not true; they say it’s a stone that you find in the depths of your spirit and then place it firmly in the centre of your being. People want that kind of certainty. But anyone who has lived for…