I pass through myself without gaining access.
Moments accumulate, but none of them clarify anything. They thicken instead, like breath against glass, briefly visible, then gone, leaving no instruction behind. I had assumed that time would refine me into something legible, that duration would polish the surface until meaning could finally pass through. It has done the opposite.

Everything I am exists for a moment and remains closed.

There is no depth to uncover, only density to endure. Thought does not illuminate; it condenses. Each attempt to understand adds another layer of interference, another film between perception and whatever it tries to reach. I do not arrive at insight. I arrive at saturation.

I become less transparent with myself.

What I feel appears with intensity and vanishes without translation. There is no continuity between states, only fragments that refuse to assemble. Memory does not preserve, it obscures. It softens edges, distorts sequence, replaces presence with approximation. What I was a moment ago is already inaccessible, not lost, but sealed.

Ephemeral opacity.

A life that flickers without revealing its structure.
A sequence of surfaces that never open.

I look inward expecting depth and find resistance.
I look outward expecting form and find distortion.
The world does not hide itself. It simply does not yield.

Even clarity feels artificial, a brief alignment of noise mistaken for truth. It dissolves as quickly as it forms, leaving behind a heavier confusion, as if the attempt itself has consequences. Understanding becomes another way of thickening the barrier.

Nothing stays long enough to be known,
and nothing opens enough to be entered.

I remain here, momentarily present, permanently obscured—
a passing obstruction in my own perception.

And when this ends,
it will not resolve.
It will only stop resisting.