reading journal

I can recount, retrace the steps; but the substance of life, that links one step with the other, still escapes me. Language creates the illusion of continuity, but that continuity is still without texture, without colour, the meaning that it harbours dense and opaque. The life of the past doesn’t like being in the limelight. As soon as it feels examine, it hides away, silent, like a tracked animal. It spies on us and only comes out of the shadows when we’re distracted- it’s always when our backs are turned that it catches up and engulfs us completely.