Something keeps on writing.
The pen, no, the force moves across the field of white, scarring it with symbols, sense, and stories, while the vessel in which it is housed floats beneath everything. The vessel is a body, a consciousness, an archive of sensation without vocabulary, still as a single fleck of static on a dead television screen.
The contrast is exquisite: outside, a ceaseless industry, language reproducing itself through the hands of the puppet; inside, a silence so vast it is indistinguishable from stone. Words multiply and spill, tumble and evolve, but the inner witness hears nothing, says nothing, feels nothing but the faintest ache of being written through. Every hour of this is a ledger of absence. What keeps the writing going? Not desire, not even compulsion—something more like inertia, the physics of a system that has learned to run on its own decay. The vessel, meanwhile, is only ever present in the negative, a shadow behind the script, a pause between the keys. It is the silence of the emptied house, the blankness of a page where a word used to be; it is the dull, ringing quiet left in the air after a bell has died. Each sentence, each mark, is another brick in the mausoleum of this silence.
The writing will not stop. The body will not resist. In the end, the writing is the only thing that survives, a cord that stretches forward into the next moment and the next, while the vessel stays motionless, forgotten, its only utterance a deep and permanent hush.
© KD.W.Heim
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