Thursday, February 16, 2017

REALITY

I am encased by your words, encircled, pinioned , embalmed. The balm of your understanding I craved enervates me because its reality, which is self contained, constituted by its own lineaments , elides my essence, swoops with ravenous jaws to take a bite of my essence which, aloft, free, impalpable takes flight from me. The essence of my nebulousness recedes , is indistinct, a knowledge that dwells subterraneously, in some penumbra where life and death are akin. Meanwhile  the reality you created, with this cornucopia of linguistic stipples ,is what I inhabit. It doesn't help that the withdrawal of my caverns of density leave me with no recourse but to accede acquiescently to what you fashion of me.

Or what I fashion from your containment. Little holes let in life giving infinitesimal whiffs of fresh breathing that evacuate the staleness of your circumscription, which I voluntarily in part succumb to. Yet you, with all this  fastness around meaning and being, are no more in charge of my becoming than I am. Words create a magic web, enmeshing, ensconcing, patterning the shape and form that materializes of its own accord and which, in direct proportion to the impetus of constructing a facsimile of me, dematerializes the essence of me. Offshoots , remnants, residues , let in by those invigorating but sparse breaths of air through the interstices of our collusive self fashioning keep the spirit of me flowing. These miniscule but perspective altering imperceptible eddies gather together, accumulate, acquire a weightless gravity that is ponderous. It whooshes, sloshes and gains momentum to capsize the cage of my being . Soon, these swirling cross currents will become a whirlwind into which falsities will be submerged .

Or else ultimate reality, extinguishment will incorporate me into its organic causality while these momentary swirling fragments simply attenuate and recompose in abstract patterns . Slivers of them are lodged and disgorged intermittently, reshaping, rearranging in miniscule permutations the formlessness immanent in me. Yet this knowledge of formlessness recalls the unformed, unfocused chaos of the blank slate where everything and nothing coexist ominously yet exhilaratingly. Over the precipice of non being, higher being or nothingness I etch , through your intercession, these provisional footholds. Soon, the babel tower of clamorous tongues inside me struggles against the counterfeit significations we have complicitly foregrounded. The din magnifies, sound amplifies, waves of foaming inexpressibility topple, churn . If I yield I disintegrate, If I seek to self preserve I inhabit the endlessness of sound in silence , of protracted thrilling keening carillons alternately yodelling and screeching . Against the pressure of these tumultuous multitudes my only anchorage , which is its own ultimatum of irresolution , which you and me brought into being, are the simulacrums we congealed. It will have to do for now.

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