I can feel a memory, feel its presence, feel its existence, but not be conscious of the memory itself. It’s not a feeling I can call consciously forth; it’s not the memory as I would describe it in words. It comes into me, comes through me, and while I can identify certain of my acts which had helped to bring the feeling about I never can identify all such acts, all events, all occurrences. Almost I want hold on exactly to the non-grasping of the memory, the non-grasping of the knowledge, the space in between the memories and the feelings, the freeing space of objective and yet ineffable truth of the world that flows through me in that moment before the wanting. There is a recurrence in this feeling. Always a déjà vu. Coming back, from a different direction, with new eyes, new visions, new hopes, newly weightless. Yet always coming back to something seen, something known before, never seen or known completely. In the moment itself the vision and knowledge and experience are “all-encompassing,” if the words are to have any true meaning. An embrace and acceptance (yet neither, for in the feeling there is no judgment of the feeling or of anything, or else there are all judgments, of all kinds, in every direction; all possible verdicts in one). Simultaneous melancholy and futility as well as release and bliss. This feeling, this natural feeling which happens for an infinity of reasons, it leads nowhere, yields nothing, tells nothing, means nothing… but when it is you, there is nothing else.