that which cannot be seen

I didn’t think things like this really happened. But this blunt hollowness has drifted with me long enough to break down my formidable powers of repression and rationalization. I mean, the explanation is so simple on its face; the sort of intuitive, sub-linear explanation that makes scientists suspicious. I can’t imagine it being endorsed by an empiricist of any serious standing. Such psychodynamics must be both feared and attacked by steady men with grim faces. But I know better. You do not dwell with a Freudian Frankenstein monster without understanding that truth is safer than science. Is monster the right word? That seems too noisy a term to describe what I have come to know. Monster is figure whereas this is the silent ground, its dull gravity slowly winning through patience and omnipresence. If it were something it could be dealt with. Were it even the unknown a solution could be found. But how do you solve the absence of the unknown? I think it goes without saying that I simply don’t know. It’s not that I am terrified, but I am starkly curious in an urgent and disquieting sort of way. When certainties appear one day as dust, spreading in all directions on shifting winds, that is enough to get the attention even of stoics. As it stands, I cannot accept the outcome. All I can do, then, is make peace with the process. When you value mystery your only choice is to accept the occasional unpleasant surprise. It’s just that, in the end, it doesn’t seem to me like too much to ask for some sort of resolution to this discord between love and affection.