The postmodern condition is an illusion. The answer is to write. Hear the characters speak. And hear them say nothing. Reading books ad infinitum until the end of time. The only consistency is washing away. Time lost to frivolity, to the consumption of something not now. Poetry accounting for something else entirely. Because maybe the character you created was entirely unreal. And there are atomic facts without ambiguity. And the mind’s eye fixed on one solution. The idea that there is only one idea, one form, one way. And the structure to represent the idea is not comprehensible. And then your phone explodes and interrupts and another reality sets in. And everything that was so clear begins to shrink into an obscurity hiding away in the horizon. And perhaps older ideas begin to reclaim their territory. And the old ghost begins to haunt. Language vomiting on itself, add appropriate Latin phrase. And the initial emotions that cling, that reside like muscle attached to bone that never let go, and it feels good to disintegrate once again, fully immersed, aware, away, into Being.
Gutting the walls of this room. The skin of language, bone, and flesh, the living skeleton of form torn from its place at center. The realization that what animated form was never that which we had thought. The realm which we had taken for granted en perpetuity, masked something more troubling. An idea that we weren’t ready for: a truth drenched in sweat.
The way we use language for us or against ourselves. The trepidation of something alien and new. The danger once again beyond sight and our field of vision, only thought can imagine the comprehension of something incomprehensible, overwhelming and godlike, imminent destruction.
An Old Consciousness passing away, an Old World clinging to its past. What can we say in this language? What can we say in this language that cannot break through an Old World? The Beginning of Freedom is perhaps the Only Reality to write. The lines of a single two dimensional shape, black lines and a white background, simply existing. The lines begin to live in the trajectory of their creator.
Pages filled with magic, stained with shit.