I dreamt I fell upon a bar, like a wire walker’s rod, whose ends extended out of some infinite unguessed place to either side in that space that knew neither up nor down nor left nor right. I held onto it, looped myself over it, strove to hold to to devise some way to suspend myself from it with my clothing. Not for any purpose. Because trying to hold on was the closest thing to a purpose I had known in all that time. Just the challenge to hang on for that moment made something different, made something other than just myself, gave some texture and definition to these moments of time.

I knew there was nothing to hold on for, that it would be easier to let go, that there was no relief or purpose in holding on. That it would lead to no end. That there was not future point of change from which looking back on it, that it would matter, that anything would be other than what it was. The time of change and difference was gone. The time of struggle was gone. But in that brief moment of reminder, the struggle itself was something. It was sweet. It was something to do. It made time and the world exist. I would have held onto it forever if I could. The most precious thing in all that empty abyss. The chance to try to hang on, for one moment out of eternity, to hold my place, to steady and right myself to some orientation. Because soon even that would be gone. And all I would ever have would be that moment to remember. As I tumbled alone in my infinite space, all mine, all to myself.