i realize i have to step back. no dreams today are made of stuff, only absence and silence and in-between.
i let you go, again, i find myself in myself, without origin, unborn, agenetic, but i am like my mother – chokmah – unseen wisdom; beyond third eyes, sixth senses, and intuitions, she is the giver of these. weaving never fully woven, holding an ever growing world in my spinning web i forget love... for the sake of something beyond humanity. what wouldn’t i sacrifice for knowledge? have i become a villain in my own shameless pursuit?
what have i given up to get where i am?
why have i always been me? (sixteen years old borrowing Nietzsche from the public library, years later, out of school, reading Lyotard and Jameson’s postmodernism alongside Eco’s semiotics for fun.)
where is the line of pretense drawn in respect to curiosity? am i allowed to be naive at my age, where i am in this mess? a fool’s hope.
it would be a pity to sacrifice innocence for something less enduring (and most things do not last).
i let go, again, and live for nothing but selfish me; blessed and lonely and carefree. i can’t deny that i am happy here. it’s easy with little to lose.
and i continue to learn, sometimes painfully when my mistakes affect others, and sometimes fortuitously when errors transform themselves into opportunities. at least obstacles along the Way are not repetitive, experience always leaves its unique contexts for the interpretation of fables; the three little pigs...
if post-philosophy is found in tropes then truth is a story to be told without beginning or end, a tale found in the clouds merging with the morning dew, only to disappear in noon sun and eerily materialize in a carpet of emerald green jewels at dusk, becoming part of the shadows, giving meaning. evaporate, condense, crystallize. a cycle so subtly inclined that the spirals of its revolutions go unnoticed to mortal time; those who cannot see through the ages have no means of witnessing the change. perhaps faithless, they watch humanity’s defeat replay itself on primetime; political stories of distraction and environmental powerlessness as an ethos.
find your own truth.
the city is your friend precisely because she’s a whore; pay your rent and you can stay.
life is easy when i imagine a rhythm i could fall into. but i won’t. maliciously curious for the next intriguing thing to hybridize Mind, alone until i give up, and i don’t know how to give up – not like this, not now.
oblivion. what else could we ever do?