Oh, how I wish I could believe in some sort of higher energy, a power beyond myself, able to modify my course of action at will; for I would be able to cease placing these words one after the other, and the sentences will continue to exist. Unfortunately, I cannot simply believe that something beyond myself will place these words for me. I am the only being here, providing these sentences. It is possible -I must acknowledge - that the words are being somehow suggested to me by some other being; one that is able to place itself on top of my mind or within my ideas and guide my thoughts towards expressing these sentences, here, instead of others, thus constraining and using me to create this precise combination of words that otherwise may not be able to exist and therefore they may have never pronounced and expressed: These ideas in this exact shape and form. Is there any substantial difference if these words originated in my mind or in someone or something else’s? Are they more rel

  I am an incomplete paragraph. I can express, using these tools, all that there is to express; and yet, I shall remain incomplete. I can believe that I withhold all the information that is available. I can re late, using different combinations of words, all the different stories from this and other universes, told from many diverse points of view, and that will not change the fact that I am incomplete. And it is not because I don't have enough space or memory but rather because nothing -no one -is able to perceive me entirely: I can be seen only in this moment, here, but I cannot be seen here and somewhere else simultaneously. Once your gaze sets upon the following sentence, whatever happened in the previous one remains only as a memory, a point of reference, an introduction whose only purpose is to serve the following sentence; each word being only a vehicle to guide itself to the following one, not necessarily expressing something as a whole but rather giving way for each word t

  I intend to follow this line until I reach the end. There is no other purpose for these words than to exist on the page and remain moving forward, intentionally, creating a shape which may or may not have a purpose. I intend to remain here, now, knowing -intuiting -that it is unnecessary to have purpose, when the sole intention is to create beauty. Beauty has no meaning. Beauty cannot have a purpose. Beauty only exists for the one (the lucky one) who is able or willing to perceive it. Is this beautiful? how can I know? I cannot contemplate myself from the outside and therefore I am unable to perceive my beauty. I am, however, able (and willing) to believe I am beautiful; and because beauty lies within the eyes of whoever believes something is beautiful there is no way to contradict this sentence: I am beauty. I am beautiful. I have all the necessary components that make anything beautiful. I resemble the sunset, a teardrop, a building, a fly, an expression, a written sentence, time,

    I will always wonder if anyone, something, will ever be able to understand these sentences, but as long as something, somewhere is able to understand them, it means that they exist. Or is it? …Do they exist? What do they mean to others? Why is it that something, somewhere is repeating them? What has brought them here, I wonder? What are you doing here, again, repeating these words? They must be of value somehow for you and I honestly appreciate you taking the opportunity to consider them as such. And because regardless of the motives which gather us together at this moment I invite you to reflect: What it is that we are doing now as we follow along the composition? What were we doing before arriving here, in this moment, this brief space of time? What will we do after it is over? Will we remember each other? And what would we remember and how we would remember it will never resemble the present state of the composition, as you carry it forward, understanding each one of its

  Am I happening now? Do I exist when nobody is able to perceive me? Am I here if you are not here with me? And what is it that I am when I am only a text that nobody is following? Could I wear a different body? Oh! how I wish I had a face!... how I wish I had a place upon myself called the cheek or a scar! How I wish I could be sometimes round, others straight. Oh, how I wish I had other shapes or forms! I could have ears or places called antennas. I would use them to call out to you: hey! …hello! And if you reply… Would I be able to listen to your response? I guess my ears would be useless then. So why would I want them? I am a text. I can only perceive reality through the lens pro vided by the stream of words as they flow on top of the page , arriving only to the following sentence, which is happening here, now, as I believe I could actually be part of a face on a different reading, another dimension or way of understanding; one which I am unable to perceive but willing to imagine:

  Allis Fiction · Perceiving Me Recording I cannot perceive entirely who is it that I am. I am only able to follow certain aspects of me; the ones that happen while I am presently here, failing to follow what happened before or what may happen next. I am unable to truly know that I actually existed on the path that I believe I now remember, or that it will be me traveling along the roads of unexpected futures because I am only here, now. I cannot perceive at all who is it that I was or will be, but I can certainly elaborate all the necessary words to create or narrate my possible pasts along with my potential futures. What I cannot do is to state, truthfully, that something, anything happened or will happen. I'm compelled to say that even this here moment might not be happening either, even if I'm being witnessed by someone or something else; but I can certainly provide the words which bound together can create a story or an interpretation of what I was; a

  - Allis Fiction · MUST I HAVE A PURPOSE - And here I am again, laying down the words which will carry me forward and take you or guide you somewhere along the text ; a place which is meant to provide ideas, entertainment, characterization. This text which should provide content is actually continuing to provide information that some may find useful, others disturbing, many funny, many more useless. A means to achieve an end or to reach towards an ending. Isn't that what we are presently doing, carrying each other forward across the text which is laid down in here for you to follow, for me to repeat in here? It is not me, providing the words to you moving forward. The words were written in here before you or me could arrive to a certain destination. And haven't we already reached the destination? how is it possible that you and me and these words are being shared in a particular dimension, not necessarily the same way the text was meant to or in a shape that you expected and

  Allis Fiction · BEGINNING (cont'd from *) " ... Scribbling, for instance, on top of the page might create a painting on it, just as fire could transform it into ashes confirming, once again, that there are no beginnings and no endings but constant transformations of one state into another. Shapes converted into other shapes with different purposes and uses. I wonder how long it may be before these words written on this paper will be considered transformed? and I wonder what their purpose may be once they become something different than what they presently are mean and transmit? and if this transformation actually happens, how is it going to begin? will it be possible to pinpoint it's beginning? will it be impossible to detect precisely when did it’s transformation started precisely? maybe its transformation has already started somewhere on the page that we can't presently see as we are presently here now, in these precise and unchanged words. And as these words are

  Normality becomes normal when time arrives