The phenomenal self orbits the soul, that would be one way to put it. That self works so hard but in its inherent blindness can give no account of what it is driving at beyond the words that dramatise its momentary predicament. It bears no burden because it is weightless, but on occasion it stammers after the soul which it dimly perceives bottled up, obscure, in silence and in need. It follows an itinerary, this is noticed after a time, that it is always arriving at or departing from some more than half familiar place, that now it rushes and now it slows as under the effects of a predictable gravitation, it makes great arcs and swings around ever returning. Not ellipses or even figure-eights, but some more complex dance with imagined branches where it always makes the same choice. You feel that you are falling into truth but there is an obliqueness in your path so that you never get any closer to it than you did the time before, you sail past without even grazing its atmosphere. You are unable to count the dark centres that determine your course, but it has to be more than one because you go so erratically, because to you it resembles chaos. To the soul it must be simple, you'll never know, it must see you always on the shortest path, the least action, blindingly simple, but you don't possess the key to this. Instead you wonder if you are fleeing as a consequence of your own actions or those of others, and if of others, then of whose acts are they the consequence, right back to the first crime.