Journal March 26, 22:50
Contingency. Multiple paths, multiple leads. Threads each holding a head, head of mine, head of hers.
Sometimes I feel a little disgust, a drop of darkness at the center of my forehead, leading me to the past. The past. The known and shared past.
Then it fades away.
I would like to know whether she will be fired from public service or whether she will detained. I'd guess not, I don't wish either. Though the stories I've heard make me believe there is a probability, much higher to be discharged and less to be arrested.
What will happen then? I don't know. I don't think she knows either. Suppose she'd been discharged and we had a meeting to discuss the situation. What could I say?
Nothing. I don't have anything to say to her in that case. I will already have to be played my part, check and mate --or this is the day that faces become dark and simply stay silent. You have drawn a path and you got the results. No need to talk, your fate has replied.
I wonder what was she expecting. Sometimes I think about her expectations to initiate this war of us. I won't be able to learn: She won't talk, she wasn't and she can never tbe that sincere anymore. It will be like a secret. A secret like my secret of that night, the night of opening.
Reason of reason: Being in multiples. Multiple ideas and multiple heads. Maybe we all have to share an idea, an idea has to live inside our heads, they have to devour our time --to exist, to evolve-- and they cannot live simply within a mind.
Why do we think we create ideas by our thoughts, rather than they live independently of us but our minds are simply their habitus?