To try to look at what is going on, to merely look with a minimum of preconceptions, with no desire that this looking mean something, that it be now or in the future a part of a story, or constitute an event of a certain kind, or that it bring something about. This of course is impossible and betrays itself almost from the first word, being a trying, being somehow a desirable or praiseworthy way to set out. Desires are like something extra that is attached to what is here, a kind of 'head' that is screwed on, one that can read, write and execute, but only according to a certain pattern, according to a certain code. In the end you find yourself so obviously separate from your desire and you ask just what did it bring you? was it worth taking on, after all? (Yes or no, the answer is immaterial.) By this time the intensity of it has already dissipated; desires burn up, even the desire to desire. It is by the momentum left over after the desire has imploded that you might see something new, because as the desire dies so do its objects, and all the understandings that made it the most natural thing in the world to wish these things. To catch a glimpse of all of it breaking up - the entire process, the urgent positing of subject, object, obstacle, god and devil - even just for a moment before the next world arises, is a tremendous relief. What do you see? Just this, that the lure, the hidden thing that is sought for in and through desire is nothing but a portion of yourself that you have alienated. This is a discovery that cannot be made casually, or discursively and cannot be made deliberately, it is reversed in being described; it can only be betrayed, only be seen.