Narcissus drowned in a pool that became a mirror.
He fell in love with his reflection in the pool and fell toward it, attempting to meet it.
Had Narcissus gazed at his reflection in a river, he would have seen a silhouette
cut through by the current – his features illegible in the unsettled surface.
He might not then have fallen into the water and drowned.
He might have lived had he not known his own face.
The pool: a body of water in the shape of an ego.
Woolf walked into the River Ouse with stones in her pockets. Full pockets. Riverstones dense
in their beauty and smoothness. I wonder if she felt the stones in her hands, felt both
surfaces speak to one another, skin touched and stone held. I wonder if
this gave her pause on the shore, held her attention. I imagine her
enveloped in the act of holding a stone, living a moment longer.
This is beautiful but beauty alone will not save anyone.
It is without an ethics. It must be swallowed whole.
This is about attention.
Hold the smooth dark stone tight in your fist until it softens from pressure and heat.
It was formed this way in the first place. Acts of attention soften our felt edges.
