A Moral Question

In abstractions, the magic is thin -- more holes than net -- but casts wide. It's not nothing, but it is in limbo: less than material but more than immaterial. Like a list, or an argument, or the feeling of a kiss, the kiss aside. I don't want abstractions. They're just signposts of what I want: reified understanding, in the form of a netherworld as real as this one. A place I could hangout in and haunt, with the benefit that the beauty that here I struggle to find in the fog and then keep close would be built into the place, as everywhere obvious as the lined or unlined sky.

In the heated idle hours most of my present life is made of, I square the circle by discursively meditating, breeding thoughts and brooding around them, looking in at them radially; every so often brainstorming out of memory the simplest mathematical facts that smirk something mysterious, curiosities curiously more than accidental, or so they seem.

It's not emptiness I come to but it's not understanding either. Shouldering the path is a moral question: Should I need a reason to return to thoughts I entertain always with the backburning hope that I can possess them -- like marbles of worlds caught in a drawstring pouch -- but with the knowledge that I can't? Can anything intimate in the end be remembered as more than the nameless, orphaned joy (of having meant something once) it soon enough becomes?