IT is the entirety of the world waiting. The transformation within a thought that has yet to arrive. And read into all ancient scriptures of the kingdom within that is wrought with pain. These waters until the end of time as is the condition of a dream. As a million avatars dreaming … writing on walls, sleeping on floors, rupturing the skin of time. This is a monster writing poetry as the novel transforms, as the writer withdraws from time, as the world awaits the symbolic shift away from time…. as the novel transforms once again.
It is the process by which the writer has withdrawals from time. It is the transformation of the narrative, breaking free from the confines. Because the context and literature and logic and philosophy and spirituality breed a new architecture: to die alone for the good of humanity, to write a language to transform itself, to write a language, because deep at heart is no thing. Because it requires an endless interrogation of self, because it requires pain, the comprehension of the full spectrum of time, and yet in this world nothing is ever understood for more than a soundbite. Parables and metaphors are not understood by many. Because to err is ideological. Because the pain feels eternal. Because time dissolves and reappears. Because time shifts. And because time begins to strengthen and nothing begins to end, and because nothing fades permanently and still more I don’t understand.
One interrogates the thought, experience and wades through the emotion, dissolving and dismantling the periphery, one of many frequent thoughts lost within an ocean.