τὸ δὲ σκότος ἐκλείποντος τοῦ φωτὸς γίνεται.
For darkness follows when light fails.
—ps-Aristotle, De Coloribus (791a; trans. W.S. Hett)
The sense of withdrawing into oneself, running to ground. A step away from easy definitions, the lineæ abscissæ of demographic plots, towards abscission – even so it shall be cut off, as someone said, and left to iniquity.
A week ago, I had wanted to say that I miss the easy rituals of human contact, but I don’t. The minor vexation of waiting in line for another’s indecision or rudeness or excess is not, for the moment, remote – one can enjoy it any day of the week, along with the other shared inanities of the agora. The murmuration of malcontent. Rather, I miss the rituals of friendly contact – letters, texts, conversations, shared anxieties and joys. The simulacra – likes, comments, the heady binary of attention (present/absent) – which for a time seemed sufficient (or at the very least a potential window to the real), have palled, their emptiness apparent, the windows too obviously dark, and the reflection failing to satisfy.