Words are how I chisel against the face of the unknown. Sometimes I get exactly what I think to discover underneath the rock, but sometimes, I unearth a thing completely unexpected. The known emerges from the unknown through my motions. Too, at times one chisels against a well grooved surface, and the known becomes the unknown through my hand — the evident becomes the mystery. But it is the same process, it is still discovery: to see what is there, whether something can be made plain where there is question, or to see that there is an enigma hidden in the plain: the same chipping away. Of this process, I find I cannot stay away, stay still for long; something in me drives me on to discover what lies underneath the visages of the known and unknown. And I think that the world I am unearthing is only half the picture, for it is, too, finding myself in what I uncover. It is understanding of how this soul wanders through the day, just how this soul makes it through the night.
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