Wanting to say that all this is what it is, just is; and so is at rest, complete and perfect in itself, because only what is directly presented is real, and if there is so much that is indirect, so much assumed to be at work off-stage to keep this up as it is, as it appears, then all this other stuff is not unpresented, but is mistaken presentations - in just the same way that certain bodily feelings can be mistaken for nostalgia or desire. Wanting to say all that, but not able to. The intensity of lived experience forces the notion of a polarity, more precisely a duality, such as subject and object, light and dark, visible and invisible, inside and outside, a duality fine enough that it can be woven into a container for our desires and more than desires, the necessary upheavals of our souls. How could the unit of anything lie there inert as a brick? It is already an operative process, a vector, a darting or a two-ness of independent parts willing their two-ness. The essence of reality is then seen to be ecstatic union, pure fuck, an essentially radiant and paradoxical yoking of one-ness and two-ness. The deep relationship of subject and object, of the visible and the invisible, of being and essence is know most purely in this metaphor as fuck. Absurd then to say that one precedes the other, but rather what we call essence, or being, in practice, is a half-enjoyed thing prematurely torn out of union, and made over to feed our insatiable and voyeuristic thought. Union is the utter obviousness of the coincidence of opposites, a movement that is both inward and outward, pure point and pure space, and it is, most completely, until it is not.