The analyst on the couch looked at me, her eyes appearing dull but piercing my thoughts. I sit in the arm chair, making observations. She hands me the pipe, I puff it. I give it back. I can still hear the woman in the other room, talking my ear off. I actively listen to her, and respond, showing that I understand. That is the first filter. This one is quieter, more contrived and self-conscious. It criticizes any utterance through harsh indifference, questioning every assertion: Is that really so? The silence continues for hours until the analyst walks away. The self-conscious subject-object continues its routine, computing the meaning of responding to silence with silence into the wee hours of the morning.

And still, it would describe its autopsy of silence as a lie. Only outside of time can a life be defined. Within time, a life is ever becoming. To define it is to trap it in a web of silk.

Leave a Reply