Hope remembers that perhaps none of the particles in the cosmos are created or destroyed. If none are ever lost, then these that erode and fall away from me as I pass cannot be lost either, really. One wants to believe in the ultimate law that balances the perfect checkbook, one wants poetic justice to be true.
But exile is no place of departure nor port of entry. It is present, and continuous—a being in state. There is no one to mark the lost lands, nor any one to count the debited small change, only credits to pay off against survival.
The things Shila had not done attached themselves to her like saddlebags. She grew fat with worry and care. The world walked with her.
The body is our means to the world. Like the body, the text, which records the body’s existence and disappearance. The text to the body of history as the sun to the stars. Work. Use value. Marx. Labour. Labour of childbirth. Acknowledged labour. Hegel’s slave. We imbue our own work with value. We are told to know the pertinacity of our work, to know why it matters, even if it is not entirely an original idea. But the battle for the acknowledgement of its value takes place on a stage external to us. The thing to do is not to acknowledge lack in return. The trouble begins when we receive the same.