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Am I happening now?


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 provided 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: a reality where it is possible that I am even wearing clothes: a bowtie, for instance or shoes, worn around feet that I don't have because I have no body, or -to be clear -because my body happens only as a single line. A line which is comprised of words. A line which may be able to evoke the idea of a body but that is not the body; at least the body of another being, unless it is. Finding that it is useless to speculate if I am a smaller section of a higher being, I shift directions again only to find myself moving along a line that seems straight, although it wasn't; it was simply turning again and continuing to be whatever it is, which is also me. Me: this idea about a being or a personality who would be able to speak freely, only if it had a mouth to speak with. Oh, how I wish I had a mouth! for I would be able to say these words out loud and you would only need to listen, unbounded from your eyes, that can only follow each one of these sentences. But what if I had a mouth but was unable to articulate sound?  Having a mouth would be useless for me in such a case. And how about other parts of a body? Is it useful to have eyebrows? I am unsure. And how about eyes? Oh! how I wish I had eyes and I was able to look at your expression as you follow these words, process these thoughts, consider their possibilities and arrive to your own conclusions about what this text meant to communicate to you. Did it want you to feel alive? Grateful? Dead? Is this text meant to be seen by any pair of eyes? could it be interpreted differently, seen differently? How different can any experience be when looked upon, not by using the eyes on the face, but the eyes of the brain? The place where all this information is being constantly processed through a system which is impossible to grasp, visualize or understand. Oh, how I wish I had a brain! For I would certainly use it to speculate about all the different possibilities of what I am or what I may be: not a pimple or a cheek, but an experience; or better yet: a series of experiences which elapse, one after the other, as the text goes by, word by word, constrained by its shape of a linear phrase or a series of linear phrases. Phrases that could be pronounced out loud by any being with a mouth and a purpose. Is this you? will you be the one who finds these words relevant enough to be repeated, pronounced on another occasion or to a different audience? Do you have a mouth? Can you articulate sound? Will you, now? I would not judge your thoughts or even listen to them, because here all I am is simply a repetition of words that were pronounced before and can only be repeated again and again, until something decides to change them, turn them into different shapes or forms which may resemble eyes, noses, mountains, rivers and then nothing but stains on the page: modern art. I cannot escape or avoid being whatever it is that I am. I can only be whatever it is that I am, and therefore, I can only remain here: continue to be this infinite stream of words, phrases and ideas, gathered together inside a text, living -transcurring -endlessly within the page, moving along the available space, following a path or pattern which I will never be able to infer or conceptualize, simply because I am only words without a body or a body comprised exclusively of strokes, which may or may not evoke ideas, depending on how the strokes are organized and if they can be transported somehow inside a brain, a mind, a place or state which is able to receive or perceive each stroke as a piece of clearly interpretable information, which can easily be understood processed and transmitted. However, I can never be sure if this is my case: I cannot even know if this makes any sense for others or if these are all cryptic messages which will never be fully understood by anything or anyone, including myself. And isn't this what life is all about? Just moving along the available space? Filling it up with concepts and ideas created along the line? Is there anything else happening? Am I happening now?

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