Fulcrum

A subject. Something solid. Something real. Something that doesn't threaten to dissolve into nothingness like a mere string of words. A string of words which one shakes and they scatter all over the lowly floor. But perhaps they can be picked up, reassembled in something like the right order.
"Though how can we ever know the right order? It ever eludes us. We try and fail, try and fail."
Who let that fool in? Anyway, something solid I said. A fulcrum around which all is kept in orbit, all revolves. How are we managing so far? Not very well, I'd have thought. But it's early yet. But early in relation to what? Does everything have to be in relation to something else? My glass-this glass rather, there is no stamp of 'me' about it-... I've forgotten what I was going to say about this glass. Something to do with its life in time I presume. Make something up if you feel the need. Next to the glass is a clock, that mocker of human vanities. No, that's the wrong kind of thing altogether, nothing solid about that.

How about a tone? A tone? An author's voice, a point of perspective. This point of perspective is the most crucial thing after all, the location of all that is seen, the structure responsible for all subsequent structure, such as this that you are reading. So we have this voice but is this voice real? I'm not denying its apparent existence, but apparent to whom? A voice, felt to be real, must be felt to be real by something else, and what can this something else be but another voice, but this voice will need another voice to feel it to be real and so on. Structures reliant upon other structures, but do we ever get to an autonomous place of reality? And that place would have to be formless, otherwise it would simply be another structure, itself reliant on other structures; endless relativism. And note how that authorial 'voice', that somewhat flippant earlier self, dissolved as we got more serious, and resumes, or at least threatens to, no resumes it is, as that tone returns. Like magic.

But perhaps we could go back to that clock. Were we too quick to dismiss it as a paragon of mutability, uncertainty, unreality even? Can we really find a fulcrum here? But look at the hands of it: they move round and round but in the very centre of this face around which all revolves is stillness, and while the hands will at sometime stop, this centre will remain as ever. It is not contradicted by activity nor reliant upon it. So here is our fulcrum.