Friday, July 25, 2014


Below the agreeable profile picture were a few words of prose. The words 'reality' was concatenated seemingly as flash fiction and conglomerated as a prose piece on the nature of reality. I hesitated momentarily because deciphering the nature of what constitutes reality is a favorite game of mine. And certainly it was a judicious pause because while i could, willfully circumvent reading something that might rouse my envy i could justify this interlude from reading further on by ruminating of the very conceptual coordinates of what i assumed this post to putatively be.

The mind ,i find meanders when forced into a train of thought that is forced upon it. Hence i dwelt on the nature of reality. What is reality. Certainly the postmodernists have deconstructed what we have considered reality to be but clearly certain realms of reality, pertaining to corporeal, sensory realms are incontrovertible. The feel of a feather stroking my cheek, the satiety of water trickling down my throat, the sharp jab of pain as a thorn pierces my finger all attest to a reality that is undeniable. When it comes to the manifestation and impingement of this reality on my consciousness and how i interpret it the matter becomes diffuse, more convoluted. And i have to wrench my eyes away from that enticing first word because once i plunge into it, i will be inescapably enmeshed as mankind is, within the interstices of the reality it creates and the reality of creation.

My fingers are itching to click on my profile link and thereby obliterate any possibility of reading this post altogether. Perhaps i could unfollow but i know that my envy, excitable at the best of times would love to self destructively immerse in the reading of this post. And i shall spend hours feeling inadequate, self loathing because someone else, even though they may not have but have,in my fractured and partisan vision, attempted and succeeded in unraveling reality in a way that i have not. So my mind vacillates, see saws and i defer my predetermined predicament by gathering my thoughts, trying to achieve in advance mnemonics the finding of which in this piece may lead me to feel self congratulatory about.

Whatever reality is, ipso facto ,it is. But the dappling of reality with my experience irradiates it, renders it luminous and pellucid. Thus, even if i were to read about the reality this post alludes to i can conveniently eschew its significations because they do not dovetail with my experience. And why must i accept another's apprehension of reality when my own sense of it, although fragmentary, suffices as an understanding of the irreality of it.

And indeed irreality is the underscoring of the indubitable fact of the provisionality of reality, its essential apocryphal quality. And though there is such a thing as external reality that i alluded to earlier there is also my cognitive comprehension of it and outer and inner intermesh to create a mosaic to which this post may be , with its allusive tantalizing glimpse but an insufficient, incompensatory arabesque. Nonetheless i better look on and read further to discern whether the blueprint of these latent possibilities are actualized or whether, to my dismay, something greater is discovered.

'The reality behind the gaza attacks' is the link with its attendant exegesis, with a quote quoted in quation marks above the link, which i mistook as flash fiction . There, both external reality, the reality mankind creates and my own inner reality are unaltered.

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