The alarm is still set.
It shouldn’t be there.
But now I’ve seen it.
Or I saw it before writing it.
I’m not sure.
The cup is on the table.
I write it.
Then I look at it inside the sentence.
Then the sentence changes what I saw.
There is a crack in the wall.
No.
First I write it.
Then it appears.
Then I no longer know the order.
For a second I think the problem is the crack.
Then I realize it isn’t.
But that realization arrives too late.
As if it has already been corrected.
Something strange happens while I read this.
I don’t know if I’m reading it correctly.
I don’t know if there is a correct way to read it.
I need to move my neck.
But I read it before I reach that sentence.
And when I reach it… I have already read it.
The sensation arrives before the thought.
No.
I already wrote that.
Or I am writing it now to correct it later.
The cup is still cold.
But now it seems to correct the order in which I observe it.
The crack is no longer fixed.
It appears where my reading needs it.
Not where it is.
I start suspecting something uncomfortable.
It’s not the text that changes.
It’s me being reordered while I read it.
The neck appears.
Then disappears.
Then returns before I’ve read it.
I don’t know when I am reading this sentence.
I don’t know if I’ve already finished it.
The alarm is still set.
But now I don’t know if I saw it or if it saw me.
For a second I think I understand what is happening.
Then that understanding changes.
Before I can finish it.
And I start noticing something even stranger:
sentences are not only written after they are thought.
they are rewritten after they have been understood.
I have to move the neck there is no neck…
