Entropy

Entropy by Lajos KovacsikThere is a particular kind of unraveling that asks nothing of you. No crisis. No announcement. Just the slow, precise loosening of the grip between words and the things they name  and a consciousness that watches itself diminish, and then watches even the watching go. Entropy moves in two directions at once: inward toward dissolution, then quietly back. Not recovery. Not resolution.
Something older than both  the moment a person stops measuring what remains and begins, simply, to inhabit it. Written in the tradition of philosophical prose-poetry, Kovacsik's work does not explain the experience of coming undone. It enacts it  in fragments, in white space, in sentences that know when to stop. And in the silence after the last word, something is still there. Attentive. Present. Enough.