Last night, I read Heidegger in the bath. It’s nice to get completely lost in something, only to find bits and pieces begin to make sense. I kept repeating to myself the same mantra that came to my mind. “My hands are open and there are no holes. My hands are open and there are no holes.” I leaned forward. Even cupped my hands. I thought, for a second, why am I doing this? But in the quiet, the stones speak of what once brought them to form. I wanted to swallow them, weighted, and placed my hand on the skin of the water. This is what the Open must feel like to my aloneness. An invisible weight which I pass through and take for granted.
My hands are open and there are no holes.