How odd that there should be inwardness when all our concepts lie on the surface of things and are objective faces, shinings, appearances. An idea with a vague reference such as energy, one that seems to pivot between feeling and seeing, which even in its most objective mode is divided into potential and kinetic, is required to extend the intuition. Thus inwardness as a self-gathering of energy as potential is feeling, and is the continuous registration of a centring, as seen in the organisation of patterns around a privileged point. And this extends into the composing of stories, even this story. But to say I'm here now writing these words, while true, also overshoots something more subtle for which there is only a trying to find words. I am acting, or energy is flowing, either way of expressing it, either choice of the key verb, divides it into certain parts in relation. But the lines of division that mark these parts are not in the nature of the thing, they don't match anything in the fluid and present reality. Switching to the past tense immediately saves the appearance, as if there is now a succession of frames, each containing a description of an action belonging to an I. These I's are not different although the frames are, their identity is prior as if they have boiled off from an invisible singularity, and are the fading embers of its dark heat. That it sits, that it writes, that it tries, that it hears, feels, sees, exceeds - where the it is the neutral marker of happening as in 'it's raining' - all of these belong to the self because the truth in them insists. They are not the clothing of the self but its expression. And it is only because it is inexpressible, and necessarily inexpressible, that it can continue to express with such punctilious insistence.