Wednesday, February 15, 2017


Words , unsaid, fester. Or rather they sprout , their spores multiplying and duplicating in an aria of wordless feeling. These spores are splotches, globules of bright vividness , whipping against the involuted tunnels of unspeakable consciousness. They hint at a new order of language, whose spores sprout sporadically , which leaks meanings beyond language into itself like an absorbent sponge and spurts its intensified sputterings in inchoate agglomeration of in...rushing secondary meanings, mediated by words that leach, bleach, etiolate and launder the profuse wellsprings of emotion .

Yet, extracting from the panoply of linguistic signifiers a remnant of the communicable I artfully reconstruct artless realms of being, circuitously reshape the microcircuitry of word building. To build worlds from words, a world apart , to imbue with an unworldly incandescence what is after all worldly, also wordy . This word ridden sheath, simultaneously armouring and disarming dismantles itself on the shores of the heart, that seat of emotion that unseats the meaning I am impelled to convey, propelled by an onrush of words expelled so that the gravidity of the unspoken is dispelled .

Meanwhile words sprout, like amoeba or language splinters, creating constituent shards, jagged, sharp edged, fine toothed , abrasive and lacquered. With each aeon of temporality I live through, simply by being cleaved to this time, this three dimensional space , through each alteration of words which correspond to an aspect of the world outside of me I appropriate, apropos of the accident of existence , this fount of constructions that aren't apriori but posterior to breathing , crying, feeding but anterior to understanding mediated through the information these informants informatively cohere and disperse , dissipate and reaggregate .

Inarticulacy is its own punishment. I want to burrow into the cocoon of pre language, I want to draw the always present though consciously eschewed mantle of the preverbal. I want to feel my way into existence, mapping the jurisdiction of thought through the fastness of non language. I endeavour to cordon off the words of which I am a funnel, I wish to dam the conduit of unmeanings I ineffectually transmute. Yet inarticulacy balks , becomes an unceasing cacophonous shriek of endless torment which conglomerates everything and nothing and is therefore nullity, ejection of the ungrasped . Thus I reinhabit the scratchy duvet of language. It abrades my skin, reweaves the intermeshed patterns of what I can never utter but utters it nonetheless, in, of, for and by itself and thus becomes inviolably itself.

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