What Remained of Krasznahorkai's Coat After Forty Years of Living
the world appears like an obstacle. not a wall — petty, constant, such that you cannot bypass: foreign movements, accidental phrases, a rhythm that does not coincide with breathing. the moth slows down. not consciously — with the body. the step becomes shorter, as if the surface demanded caution, but does not explain why. she notices irritation and does not correct it. this is new. in book two this was not there. here — it is. the outside is not hostile. it is simply not attuned. and the moth for the first time does not attempt to level the world to herself. she passes through the obstacle not by victory, but by preservation. the body remembers how not to contract, even when pressed.
the rhythm of the world does not notice you. it does not coincide — it imposes itself. foreign steps cross the trajectory, sounds cut into pauses, movements occur so close that the body does not manage to decide where its boundary lies. the moth feels this like a compulsion to a tempo. not an order, but a fact: either move faster, or remain superfluous in this flow. breathing breaks. not sharply — uncomfortably. as if someone constantly shifts the moment of inhalation half a second earlier than needed. she notices anger. not in thoughts — in the jaw, in the shoulders, in the contraction of the step. this is new. in silence they did not press so. the world is not hostilely disposed. it simply does not stop. and the moth for the first time does not attempt to explain herself to it and does not vanish. she does not accelerate. and does not exit the flow. she allows the rhythm to press — and checks whether the body will endure without escape and without capitulation.
she appears far too close. not from a distance, not from the field of vision — immediately in the space of the body. the foreign movement is not calculated for the moth. it is calculated for passage. shoulder touches shoulder. not a blow — a brief, precise violation of the boundary. the body reacts earlier than thought manages to find a form for “i beg your pardon” or “careful”. the moth stops mid-step. this is not provided for by any rhythm around. the world does not wait. the other has already gone further, not having looked back, not having fixed the fact of the meeting. in the body remains a trace. not pain. a displacement. as if someone had moved the inner support a few centimetres to the side. once a meeting meant an exchange. now — an influence without consent. and the moth notices: she does not vanish and does not restore balance immediately. she stands in this for a few breaths. the world flows around the pause, like water flows around a stone they did not plan to see here. then the body itself finds a new position. not that which was before. and not a defensive one. simply — other. the moth goes further.
the collision did not become a history. but it became a fact with which now one has to move.
the voice arises from the side. no address. not to her. simply — louder than needed for this distance. it passes by, but catches. not by meaning — by timbre. within it there is a demand having no addressee, and therefore it touches everyone. the body reacts. the shoulders tense, as if sound could touch physically. the moth does not turn her head. she does not seek who speaks. the voice repeats. and again — not to her. but each time a little closer to the inner boundary having no name. once sound meant meaning. now — pressure. and the moth notices: she wants this to cease. not anger. a reaction. she does that which is nothing. does not go. does not answer. does not protect herself. the body holds the sound,
the way they hold a far too heavy packet — without heroism, simply in order to carry it through. the voice vanishes. not because she endured. but because the world switched over to something else. in the body remains an echo. not a memory. a mould. another way of being in contact without consent and without destruction. the moth goes further. the air again becomes simply air. but the boundary already knows that sound can be a touch.
afterwards the body does not yet return fully into its own. movements are possible, but not automatic. every gesture as if checks the air: whether it is safe to be usual. the moth notices this in the petty. the palm holds longer onto the strap. the step shortens for a moment and again finds length. nothing hurts. simply there is caution without a cause. the outside does not repeat.
neither shoulder. nor voice. the world behaves correctly. and precisely therefore the body does not yet trust. once an echo demanded an explanation. now — merely time. not much. precisely as much as needed for the tension itself to release the grip. breathing evens out not immediately. but it evens out. without a decision. without a conclusion. the moth goes further. not because everything passed. but because the body remembered: it knows how to return to itself after contact.
the request arises quietly. not like an address, but like a pause in which from her something is expected. the moth feels this not in words — in the direction of the gaze that lingered a moment longer than needed in order simply to see. she does not immediately understand that this is to her. the world is used to not explaining its expectations. it simply leaves them in the air,
like an object that no one took, but everyone knows that it is here. the request has no form. there is no question. there are no words. there is only an empty place that suddenly found itself between her and the other. the body reacts otherwise than to pressure. not contracts. not tenses. it stops, as if checking: whether one can not answer and not vanish. once a request demanded a role. to explain. to help. to be convenient. now the moth does not enter any of them. she does not answer. and does not turn away. she allows the request to be for a while without fulfillment. the world endures this not immediately. the gaze shifts. the pause closes. the request dissolves without consequences. the moth goes further. and for the first time notices: the outside can ask — and not receive. and she can remain whole in both cases.
the word appears not immediately. it is preceded by an unsuccessful pause. — excuse me… the voice is not certain. not loud. but already directed. now the request has a form, and from this form it is harder to turn away. the moth stops. not sharply. movement simply does not continue. the body reacts faster than thought manages to prepare an answer. the word suspends. that which was to be said next does not manage to be born. the world waits. not aggressively. persistently. once words obligated. they opened roles, evoked functions, tethered to a history. now the moth hears in them merely a sound which someone decided to transmit further. she does not answer immediately. and in this delay appears a boundary. not spoken. but tangible. — it is nothing, — she speaks finally. this is no help. no agreement. no explanation. merely a sign that contact occurred and needs no continuation.
the world receives this reluctantly, but receives. the conversation does not begin. the expectation falls away. the moth goes further. the words remain behind not as a refusal, but like a correctly used measure.
she answers far too quickly. not because she wants to — because the word manages earlier than checking. — yes, — says the moth. and immediately feels: this is not it. the word lays itself down heavier than it should. as if she just now agreed to something she had not yet seen and did not choose. the world reacts instantly. the request that was soft gains a support. now it has a direction. and this direction comes out of her. the moth notices a tension in the body. not sharp — correcting. the shoulders change position, the breath shortens. the body already knows: the boundary was just now shifted. once an error demanded a correction.
an explanation. a return. now the moth does that which is nothing. she does not take back the word. but neither does she move further in that direction which it opened. the pause becomes uncomfortable. the world waits for a continuation. but the continuation does not come. — excuse me, — she says calmly. not as an apology. like a stop. and this turns out enough. the request loses form. the situation does not unfold. the error does not become a history. the moth goes further. the word remains behind not as a guilt, but like a reminder: in contact one can err and not lose oneself.
this time without an introduction. the request does not seek a pause. it comes like a continuation, as if the conversation had already begun and the moth simply missed the first cue. — so, how about it? the words are short. without softening. without an “excuse me”. the world speaks so, as if it gained permission the previous time and now uses it.
the moth feels this immediately. not wonder — the pressure of recognition. her word “yes” is still here. it did not vanish. it became a point of support for the other. the body reacts faster than thought. it does not contract, but neither does it open. as if it becomes heavier. more stable. the world waits for an answer which is logical. a continuation. an unfolding. of that which usually happens next. the moth keeps silent. not as a resistance. and not as confusion. this is another type of silence — that which does not support the rhythm. the pause becomes noticeable. uncomfortable. it violates the certainty upon which the repetition held. — well? — is heard slightly more sharply. and right here the moth understands: the world is not evil. it simply is used to going further, if it is not get in the way. — no, — she says quietly. without an explanation. without an argument. the word does not close the door. it simply removes the direction. certainty vanishes
just as quickly as it appeared. the request no longer has a support. the conversation does not find whereon to lean. the world retreats. not with offense. rather — with wonder. the moth goes further. and notices: the boundary became clearer not because she held it, but because she allowed it to appear in action.
after this nothing happens. no one returns. no one explains. the world makes no gestures that could be read as respect or offense. but something changes. the moth notices this not immediately. first — in the distance. it becomes half a step greater, as if space had learned to bypass her more carefully. gazes glide past, not lingering. voices do not address, but neither do they press.
requests, if they do arise, dissolve even before they acquire form. the world did not negotiate with her. it simply remembered. not the words. not the intonation. not the situation. but the very fact: here is a boundary which it is not worth checking a second time. once the memory of the world frightened. it meant consequences. now the moth sees otherwise: memory can be neutral. functional. without emotions. the body reacts first. it relaxes not completely — precisely as much as not to be at the ready. breathing returns to its usual rhythm. the moth goes further. the boundary does not vanish. it simply no longer demands a constant presence. and in this appears a new sensation: one can be in the outside and not defend oneself every moment. the world remembers. and this is enough. ось готовий британський переклад другого великого блоку з десяти нотаток (11–20) третього зошиту. у цій частині книги моль проходить крізь простори збою, де правила стають надмірними, а її власна точність і чутливість перетворюються на пастку та інструмент експлуатації для зовнішнього світу, аж доки вона не знаходить спосіб м'якого виходу й відновлення. як і в попередніх розділах, усе оформлено строго за вашими стандартами вищого рівня для електронного видання:
● базовий шрифт — arial ● вирівнювання — строго по лівому краю ● міжрядковий інтервал — 1.25 ● розмір назв нотаток — 14 ● увесь текст написаний виключно з маленької літери (включаючи назви нотаток, номери та початок речень) ● авторське ім'я — daniel a. freedman ви можете просто скопіювати цей блок у свій текстовий редактор:
this place does not stand out. there is no sign. there is no threshold. there is no sensation that something is different here. precisely therefore the boundary does not trigger. the moth enters and does not immediately understand that the body changed its behaviour. the shoulders again become heavier. breathing shortens without a cause. the world here does not bypass. does not remember. does not heed the distances that were already mastered elsewhere. movements are too close, gazes have no trajectory, sounds impose themselves without pauses. this is no invasion. this is the absence of attunement. the moth stops. and notices: the boundary is there, but it cannot be read. neither by the body. nor by the outside.
once she would have attempted to hold it. to mark it. to make it visible. now — no. she does not attempt to work here the way she worked previously. the body does not insist on the usual way of being. the moth does the only thing possible: she slows down. not in order to protect herself. but in order to feel how precisely this place moves. and then it becomes clear: here they do not violate boundaries. here they do not take them into account. not out of malice. out of habit. the moth does not remain. and does not flee. she passes through the place the way one passes through a strong wind: not fighting and not stopping. when she exits, the body returns to itself not immediately. but it returns. the moth goes further with a new knowledge: there are spaces where the boundary — is no instrument. and then there is needed another way
of being alive.
here everything is already decided. even before anyone appears, the boundaries stand in their places. even. clear. such that do not need presence in order to work. the moth feels this immediately. the body stops not due to pressure, but due to the resistance of the air. as if every movement has a correct form and an incorrect one — and to confuse them is not permitted. here they do not approach too close. do not look too long. do not ask extra things. everything is correct. safe. impenetrable. once such places seemed a salvation. within them one does not need to defend oneself. boundaries did this for you. now the moth notices otherwise: these boundaries do not ask whether they suit her. movements become carefully correct. the shoulders level out. steps attune themselves. the body fulfills the demand earlier than the request arises. this is no violence. this is a norm that leaves no place for deviation. and precisely therefore
it presses. the moth catches herself on the desire to become smaller. not to vanish — to fit in. to be corresponding to this space where everything is already decided. she stops. not demonstratively. not in opposition. simply ceases to attune every movement. the body feels discomfort. not external — internal. as if she took off far too tight clothing in a place where they do not do this. no one reacts. the rules do not punish. they simply do not change. the moth understands: this place is not for fighting and not for remaining. one can only pass it through, not allowing it to determine what your form should be. she goes further. the boundaries remain behind. the very same rigid ones. the very same correct ones. and in the body remains the knowledge: excessive protection can press no less than its complete absence.
at first — no thought. not even a sensation. rather — a change in the trajectory of the body happening before she manages to decide anything. the moth notices: certain places give themselves away even from a distance. not by appearance. not by noise. but by the way air pulls itself toward them. those that do not remember boundaries have far too even movement. within them everything flows without stops, and the body instinctively seeks where to diminish the step. those that remember too much stand tensely. even in peace. as if space were held in a frame which cannot be seen, but you feel it with the shoulders. the moth no longer enters them accidentally. she does not avoid. and does not choose. simply the body already knows how looks the antechamber of pressure. once orientation demanded signs. now — merely attention to a fine shift in the middle of a step. she learns to read places the very same way
she once read silence. not analysing. not explaining. receiving the signal and not unfolding it into a history. sometimes she nevertheless enters. consciously. in order to pass through. sometimes — bypasses, not making of this a gesture. the world does not notice this skill. for it nothing changed. but for the moth appears a new level of movement: she no longer checks every place upon herself. recognition does not protect. and does not guarantee. it simply diminishes the number of unneeded collisions. the moth goes further. now not only within the world, but also in its relief. and the body for the first time does not catch up with the event, but goes half a step ahead.
at first everything looks familiar. the air is even. movements are predictable. the body does not emit signals. not a single tension in the shoulders, not a single contraction
in breathing. the moth goes, trusting this. the skill of recognition keeps silent. and this seems a good sign. the place opens slowly. without sharp transitions. without thresholds. as if nothing changes — and precisely therefore the change occurs. she notices this too late. not as a danger — like a displacement. the body suddenly begins to attune itself, though it was not asked to. the step levels out. the shoulders occupy the correct position. the gaze stops there where it is “accepted”. everything is correct. far too correct. the moth stops. and understands: she erred not in the type of place, but in the moment. this is a space that switches on later. boundaries here do not stand — they gradually close in. the body reacts with a delay. as if the skill read the signal, but did not manage to transmit it further. this is no failure of essence. this is a failure of synchronization. once such an error
would have evoked anxiety. now — merely clarity: navigation is not absolute. the moth does not attempt to return control. she does not reproach herself. she simply corrects the step for the present. movement becomes slightly slower. not resistance. not escape. but the return of attention into the body, which already felt excessive correctness. the place offers no resistance. it does not live. it functions. and precisely therefore the error can be corrected without fighting. the moth exits not immediately. and not quickly. the skill of recognition rewrites itself on the move. now it knows: certain places learn along with you. and not all signals are given in time. the error does not cancel the path. it merely specifies its relief.
after the failure
the body does not calm down immediately. it is not tensed — it is attentive. the moth notices more than previously. not details — deviations. barely noticeable shifts that have not yet become events, but already have a direction. the air changes density a few steps ahead. sound does not press, but leaves a trace, like fingers on water. the movements of people give away intent earlier than form. this is no prediction. this is anticipation. the body now goes slightly faster than the situation, but does not break ahead. it simply is not late. once such sensitivity would have been exhausting. now — economical. it does not demand a reaction to everything. merely a differentiation. the moth allows herself to change trajectory without an explanation. to stop without a cause. to continue without confirmation. the world does not notice these micro-decisions. but they preserve energy. the error did not make her more cautious. it made her more precise. boundaries now are not rigid
and not blurred — they are mobile, like the focus of a gaze knowing when to narrow. the moth goes further with this sharpening not as with a gift and not as with a burden. like with a temporary mode that switched on because it was needed. and in this mode for the first time appears a quiet certainty: even if recognition errs again, the body will manage to catch reality mid-step.
the world notices not the moth. it notices the reaction. not with eyes — by the rhythm. by delays. by those micro-movements arising earlier than a decision. at first this looks accidental. someone speaks slightly more quietly. someone makes a pause there where a pause evokes tension. nothing direct. nothing that could be called an influence. the moth feels how her sensitivity becomes convenient for the outside. not as a weakness — like an interface. the world touches not the body,
but the attunement. requests appear there where she is already ready to notice them. movements shift precisely enough for her to react first. this is no compulsion. this is a temptation by predictability. once danger was loud. now — thin. the world does not press. it offers correspondence. the moth catches herself on the fact that she begins to anticipate expectations. not to help — to anticipate. and in this something breaks. the body tenses otherwise. not from a threat — from constant readiness. sensitivity loses freedom. it becomes an obligation. the moth stops. not sharply. not demonstratively. she simply ceases to use her own precision to the full. breathing deliberately coarsens. the step becomes less precise. attention releases the edge. the world for a moment loses a support. it no longer has anything to cling to.
it does not know when to expect a reaction. the moth goes further slightly less precise. slightly less convenient. and for the first time in a long while feels relief: sensitivity again belongs to her, and not to interaction.
she notices it not immediately. not because it is unnoticeable, but because it is not attuned to her. movements are not corrected. the tempo does not adjust itself. the gaze does not seek a point of intersection. this body does not react to her sensitivity and does not use it. the moth feels this like a relief coming without a cause. as if someone had removed a tension about which she had already begun to think as a norm. they are nearby. not close. not far. enough for the space between them not to demand regulation. the other body moves not precisely and not imprecisely. it moves for itself. not as a gesture of independence — like a fact.
the moth notices: she does not need to anticipate. does not need to read. does not need to leave a place for another's reaction. sensitivity does not vanish. it simply ceases to be used. once a meeting meant the exchange of signals. now — a common space without agreements. this is no closeness. this is the absence of exploitation. the other body does not linger. and does not go away. it simply is present in the same segment of time, not touching her boundaries and not mirroring them. the moth goes further with a strange sensation: one can be nearby and not be needed. this body gave her nothing. and took nothing. and precisely therefore the meeting proves to be restorative.
noise enters suddenly. without preparation. without a buildup. as if the world remembered itself and decided
not to wait. sounds impose themselves, movements become denser, space contracts to the minimum possible. the body again finds itself inside a flow that does not differentiate individual trajectories. the moth feels the first impulse — to gather oneself. to return precision. to switch on sensitivity to the full. and stops mid-breath. something changed. not the noise. not the world. but the way the body answers. she does not switch off sensitivity. and does not give it back to the world. she allows it to be inactive. noise passes through the body, but does not settle. it is loud, but not addressed. it does not gather into a demand. it simply exists. once noise meant a threat or a loss. now — a background needing no participation. the moth moves slightly slower than the rhythm around.
not intentionally. naturally. this shift is not corrected. the world does not wait — but neither does it press precisely upon her. she catches herself on a strange sensation: noise returned, but it is no longer the main thing. not because it is weaker. but because it is not the only thing that is happening. the body remembers another possibility of presence. and this is enough for the noise not to capture the entire field of attention. the moth goes further in a loud world that again became usual. but now it does not overlay the inner silence — it simply coexists with it.
noise does not end. it does not fall away, does not change character, does not make pauses that could be taken for relief. it simply endures. the moth remains in it longer than usually. not out of a challenge. without a decision. time stretches out and loses division into “endured” and “a little more”.
the body tires not immediately. first — the sharpness vanishes. then — the need vanishes to react to everything. sensitivity switches over into an economical mode. noise no longer attacks. it does not vanish — but becomes a level. like a temperature to which one adapts, not ceasing to feel. the moth catches herself on the strange: she ceases to wait for the end. and precisely then appears endurance. not tense. not heroic. usual. once a long stay in noise exhausted. now — structures. the body lays out attention in layers: something passes by, something settles, something at all does not reach. she does not isolate herself. and does not blend. she simply remains at her own tempo inside another's. time goes. this is noticeable not by the clock, but by the fatigue which does not ask
for a change of conditions. it asks merely not to complicate. the moth goes further in noise that became the background of duration. and understands: a long stay does not destroy if one does not demand of oneself constant readiness. the noise did not retreat. but it ceased to determine every movement.
she exits not because she can no longer endure. noise did not become unbearable. it does not press more strongly than previously. simply at some moment the moth notices: she no longer needs to be here. this is no decision. rather — a change of inner temperature. the body itself finds a direction not leading deeper into the flow. she does not seek silence. and does not avoid noise. she simply exits the zone where presence demands an excess of attention. steps become slightly wider. breathing levels out
without an effort. there is no relief — there is correspondence. noise remains behind without a protest. it does not attempt to delay. does not get offended. the world receives the exit just as calmly as it received the stay. the moth stops for a moment. not for checking. in order to feel the difference between “one can be” and “it is not necessary to be”. once an exit meant a refusal. now — a correction of trajectory. not an escape, but care without explanations. she goes further in a space where noise is still audible, but no longer forms the inner landscape. and in this exit for the first time appears a quiet certainty: the moth can enter and exit from the world without permission and without consequences. ось готовий британський переклад наступного великого блоку з десяти нотаток (21–30) третього зошиту. у цій частині книги всесвіт остаточно позбавляється необхідності внутрішнього свідка: рух та нерухомість втрачають обов'язковість, надлишок світу перестає бути обов'язком, а текст триває без того, кого можна було б назвати. як і в усій книзі, текст бездоганно адаптовано під ваш філософський та синестетичний стиль і сформатовано під суворі вимоги електронного видання вищого рівня: ● базовий шрифт — arial ● вирівнювання — строго по лівому краю ● міжрядковий інтервал — 1.25 ● розмір назв нотаток — 14
● увесь текст написаний виключно з маленької літери (включаючи назви нотаток, номери та початок речень) ● авторське ім'я — daniel a. freedman ви можете просто скопіювати цей блок у свій текстовий редактор для завершення тридцятої нотатки третьої книги:
the noise remains somewhere behind, but silence does not enter immediately. first — the body. it still holds the rhythm that is no longer there. the breath is slightly deeper than needed. the step still expects an obstacle that does not appear. the moth stops not because she wants to. the body itself ceases movement, as if checking: whether indeed one can not continue. nothing presses. nothing demands. space does not fill the pause. it simply is. gradually residual tension vanishes. not all of it — merely that which held readiness. the shoulders drop by a few millimetres. this is enough to feel the difference. the body does not celebrate. and does not restore itself as after a trial. it simply returns
to its usual weight. the moth notices the petty: the touch of clothing, the position of the feet, the evenness of breathing. things which in the noise did not reach consciousness. once silence was an event. now — a state needing no separate attention. the body does not focus on the absence of noise. it uses it, not naming. the moth stands for a few breaths. not longer than needed. and not less. then movement returns. calmly. without a cause. the body is ready to go further not because it rested, but because it holds nothing.
she enters and changes nothing. does not prepare. does not check the space. the body does not seek signals — it simply continues to be in that mode in which it exited the silence. the new space does not immediately notice this. it behaves by habit:
movements, sounds, presences that do not ask who enters with them. but the moth does not attune herself. not because she resists. but because she already carries nothing along with her that needs to be reconciled. the step lays itself down by itself. breathing does not change. the shoulders do not react to drawing near. the world tries to catch hold. not aggressively — out of inertia. but the body does not answer in the usual manner. there is no tension by which one can take hold. the moth notices: space begins to flow around her otherwise. does not retreat — simply does not intervene. this is no control. and no distance. this is the absence of inner noise which previously provoked interaction. once every entry meant a new attunement. now — a transference of the very same state into other conditions. the moth goes further in a space
which became neither softer nor harder. it simply gained no extra material for pressure. and in this is quietly fixed a change: the moth no longer depends on the type of space in order to remain within herself.
she does not go further. and not because something stopped her. there is no obstacle. there is no fatigue. there is no signal that would demand remaining. the moth simply does not continue movement. the body does not tense in expectation of an explanation. it does not seek wherewith to fill this stop. there is no task. there is no role. there is no need to be here for what. space does not react. it does not adjust itself and does not expel. nothing happens precisely because nothing was planned. once a delay always meant something. a risk. uncertainty. a decision. now — no. the moth feels
how the body settles in the place, not fixing itself. as if the ground were reliable enough to stand, but does not demand rooting. she does not look around with intent. the gaze does not gather information. things simply exist within their own boundaries, and this is enough. time passes. not by. through. not leaving traces that would have to be remembered. the moth does not think when to go further. and this is new. movement now is not the next step, but a possibility that does not press. she stands for a few more breaths. precisely as much as there is. neither more. nor less. and when movement returns, it does not look like a continuation. this is simply another form of the very same remaining. the moth goes further with a sensation needing no name: one can be in a place and have no cause whatsoever
to justify it.
she begins to notice them not immediately. not as points on a map. not as refuges. but as the absence of tension needing no explanation. such places do not call. within them there are no signs. no one says: here one can. simply, when the moth enters them, the body poses no questions. the air does not demand adaptation. space does not gather itself around her presence. movements become neither more cautious, nor more precise. they simply remain their own. the moth notices a pattern: these places promise nothing. within them they do not wait, do not count time, do not fix remaining. here one can be — and this is enough. once she sought places with meaning. then — places without a threat. now — places without a cause. she does not linger long. and does not pass by. duration here is not important. important is something else: the body does not switch on any mode whatsoever.
the moth begins to recognise such places even from a distance. not with a gaze — by the step. it becomes evener without an effort. as if the earth agreed to hold the weight without conditions. the world does not notice this navigation. it is busy with something else. and precisely therefore it is possible. the moth goes further, not gathering a collection of safe points. she does not want to possess them. it is enough to know: such places exist, and they do not demand either presence, nor absence. and from this moment movement in book three becomes different: between noise and contact appears another dimension — a space where one can be without a cause and without consequences.
movement does not vanish. it simply ceases to be needed. the moth notices this without wonder. there is no moment when she decides to remain.
there is merely the absence of an impulse to go further. the body does not seek the next step. not due to fatigue. not due to fear. simply — nothing pulls. the place in which she is is not special. and precisely therefore within it one can not continue. there is neither a promise, nor a threat, nor a task demanding movement. once a stop meant a risk of getting stuck. now — it has no vector. it is not directed either forward, nor backward. the moth feels the unusual: time does not accumulate. it does not press. does not ask for use. breaths go evenly, and between them nothing needs to be embedded. the world passes by. not stopping. and not pushing. she is not outside it — she is simply not in its flow. movement is possible. but not obligatory. and this difference changes everything. the moth stands in the unneededness of movement as long
as there is. without a count. without a decision. and for the first time this absence of direction does not look like a loss. it looks like sufficiency.
movement returns without a signal. not like an impulse, not like a decision, not like an answer to the outside. it simply again becomes possible. the moth notices this in the legs. they no longer stand. but neither do they go. within them appears a readiness that does not call. the place does not lose its sufficiency. the unneededness of movement is not cancelled. it simply ceases to be the only state. once movement always had a cause. now — it has merely a permission. the body no longer checks whether it is correct to stir. the first step does not stand out. there is no sensation of a beginning.
there is no transition. movement does not separate itself from standing. it grows out of it, like a breath grows out of a pause. the world does not react. and this is important. no one notices that she is again in movement. for this movement needs no witnesses. the moth goes without a direction that needs being held. steps do not lead. they simply occur there where the body agreed to be continued. and in this return movement finally loses its old role. it is no longer a meaning, no task, no trial. it — is one of the forms of presence which can appear and vanish, not violating wholeness. the moth goes further. and now surely knows: if movement vanishes again, she will not be lost. and if it remains — she will not have to serve it.
the world does not become louder. it becomes greater. there are more events than needed to orientate oneself. there are more movements than the body is ready to include in attention. there are more meanings than ever was needed to be held. the moth notices this like a loss of focus that does not anxiously disturb. eyes see, but do not gather. ears hear, but do not separate the main thing. once excess demanded a choice: to cut off, to structure, to understand. now — demands nothing. the world simply spills over past. the moth goes in this excess without attempting to fit in. she does not diminish herself and does not expand to meet it. she allows the world to be greater than her participation in it. this is a strange sensation: reality endures without the need for her reaction. nothing breaks. nothing loses meaning. simply a part
passes past attention and does not ask for a return. the moth feels a light fatigue. not from a load — from an excessive offer. and for the first time this fatigue is no problem. it — is the signal of sufficiency. she does not attempt to contain the world. and the world does not insist on being contained. excess does not threaten. it simply ceases to be an obligation. the moth goes further in a reality which no longer waits for her participation in order to exist. and this is no alienation. this — is liberation from the centre.
she ceases to hold. not all at once. not demonstratively. one by one — that which only yesterday seemed necessary for orientation. the moth notices the moment when the gaze can not return. when the sound can not be listened through
to the end. when the thought can not complete itself and lose nothing important. this is no indifference. this is a choice of focus which no longer strives for fullness. the world continues to offer excess. but now it does not get inside. it glides past, not leaving traces that would have to be erased. the moth feels a strange relief: attention becomes lighter when it is not obligated to be attentive to everything. once releasing frightened. it seemed that something important would be lost. now loss does not occur. simply diminishes the volume of presence that needs being held. she allows certain things to remain unnoticed. not as a gesture of refusal. like a gesture of trust: the world will not fall apart without her attention. the moth goes further in a space which no longer needs her inclusion in order to exist. and for the first time this does not look like
a distancing. this looks like the releasing of the hands.
she notices it not immediately. there is no moment when the moth decides not to pay attention to herself. simply at some time the inner gaze does not return. action occurs without a comment. a step — without checking. a breath — without observation. the body moves, not fixing itself as an event. once she knew where she remains. in what state. what she feels. now these questions do not appear. not because answers vanished, but because they are not needed. the world does not become closer. and does not distance itself. it simply continues to be, and the moth — in it, without an inner witness. the sensation is strange, but not anxiously disturbing: as if someone had removed the mirror, and the body is no longer obligated to be reflected. there is no evaluation: whether this is good or not. there is no loss of control. there is only the absence of the need to accompany oneself
with a thought. the moth does not vanish. she simply does not fix her own presence as a separate quantity. movements occur, events pass, and the centre does not gather itself. once to be meant to be conscious. now — it is enough to be. and in this simplicity appears something new: a freedom that does not know that it is freedom. the moth goes further. but now her name does not sound at every step. and the text for the first time is not certain whether it has anyone to follow.
movement occurs. the air changes direction. sounds pass in layers. the light lays itself unevenly, as if it has no centre to which it would be worth adjusting oneself. steps are audible, but the one who walks is not visible. they do not lead and do not recede. they simply appear and vanish in a space that does not ask about intent.
objects occupy a place without an explanation. distances hold themselves. nothing gathers itself into a point. nothing falls apart. time goes not forward, but deep. it is not counted. it does not accumulate. it simply endures as a condition. noise is present, but does not dominate. silence appears, but does not declare itself. they do not oppose. they coexist without the necessity of being named. movement changes. a stop occurs. continuation is possible. none of these states has priority. the body is there. but it is not set apart. it is no centre and no background. it — is one of the conditions, like temperature or light. nothing needs observation in order to be real. nothing vanishes without attention. the text endures without the one who could be named. and this is enough.
nothing happened. and this is no omission. the number holds the place. emptiness — is not empty. it fixes the moment when the subject is no longer needed, and the text still endures.
the light changes without a cause. surfaces accept another brightness, but do not become more important. movements occur somewhere nearby. they are not counted. they are not linked among themselves. space holds itself without a centre of gravity. nothing attracts attention for long. time does not hasten and does not decelerate. it simply allows occurring.
sound appears and does not continue. the pause does not expect filling. presence does not demand confirmation. absence needs no explanation. nothing looks at itself from the side.
boundaries remain,
but are not checked. the possibility of movement is there. the possibility of a stop — too. none of them is better. presence has no name. it does not gather itself into a narrative.
space endures without the intent to be read. movement is possible. a stop too. none of them needs a witness. the world does not gather itself into an event. it does not wait for an explanation. it simply is in that form in which nothing is lacking. in this nothing is lacking to the moth either. the name does not linger. it does not pull after itself neither an image, nor a history, nor a continuation. after it there remains only the very same that was before: the possibility of movement, the possibility to be, the possibility not to differentiate one from another. the text does not close itself. it simply holds no one anymore.