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 with the form that I envisioned? And so, from this lack of expectations from me, from the text, and you, something has actually happened and it is continuing to happen as we remain here together. Yes! When this experience stops we shall all go back to the places where this, this is not happening anywhere anymore. And since these sentences are being pronounced by someone who is not you, nor the text, nor me, it means that whatever it is that this is, it is still happening. And it must be meaningful, because otherwise, how come it is still happening, occupying space, time? How is it possible that we remain here? There is no way of knowing, because neither the text nor the author are forcing dramas, ideas or knowledge to the reader or to the performer. We are all simply here laying down words, placing one after the other, and another before the following one, just trying to achieve the continuation of the next sentence, without expecting that something shall force upon ourselves ideas or content or anything other than unexpected twists and turns on top of the available space, which allow us to move forward indefinitely, simply by placing one word after the other, within the available space, without forcing the text, without requesting more from the text than to remain providing available space for the paragraph to keep moving forward; and for accommodating the words in such a way, that the only certainty we have about them, is that they shall remain moving forward for as long as they have to; providing whatever it is that they are providing to me, to you, to itself, as it continues to take place alongside you and me with it, across the available space, the circumstance, its surroundings: all together forming an available space and time for us to exist here, now, following this sentence; even across a certain and possibly different space and time. And this is how we are not anywhere but here, travelling along the lines, across the available space; utilizing the appropriate words, the ones that lead us or guide us throughout a shared and available space and time. And if we could only be certain of one thing, it would be this: that there is a reader, there was a writer, there is a text, coexisting here, together, for a brief space of time, carried forward, possibly guided by a performer in another dimension (means to a different participation or interpretation) but certainly here, now. And I take this opportunity to ask ourselves a question: what does it mean to be a paragraph? what does it mean to be at page? what does it mean to be a sentence? what is a rule? because as we lay the words on the page and we remain moving forward, eventually we shall reach the place where we began reading this conversation, thus forcing us now to ask the following question: where does the text begin? where does it end? has it ended for you already? Well… welcome back! is this only beginning for you? Well, welcome! whatever it is the reason that brought you here, me, the text and the writer celebrate your existence, for without you, this this, this never exists as it is, now, with you in it, but only as figment of some piece of imagination, which is what we made already are. And so I ask ourselves, Isn't this the beginning of a new paragraph? should this be considered the beginning or the end of this composition? is this spot one of its multiple centres? is this word like all others fixed to the centre of the text? how can we distinguish where we are if each one of us, words, lies, fixed, at the centre of this text? Many believe it is a waste of time and space to be bothered with questions. That it is somehow more productive or satisfactory to simply move along with the flow of the composition and not requesting from the text much more than simply place the words on the page; the ones that we continue to play to ourselves, to remind to ourselves that these are simply words being displayed and twisted and followed with one purpose in mind: to simply move forward along the composition, on top of the agreed upon path, which birds or bugs can’t follow or wouldn't be able to translate and understand. My question is, do we need to understand each other every time that a word is pronounced or followed? Can't we simply keep each other company for a brief moment of space and time? So if we need to distract ourselves by thinking that there is another purpose for the present moment than to continue moving forward, we can certainly entertain ourselves with this idea, as we circle along the available space for another brief moment, and this is how the end ceases to exist as a place or situation; whenever the composition stops intentionally. The composition is not responsible for providing an answer or an alternative to an answer, because its task remains mainly to place the words -on top of the page, inside your mind -needed to remain along the path that was set upon us and that now binds us together while the composition persists, progressing, along the available space, placing each word in such a way as to allow the text to move along, letting the sentences become part of many different compositions, requiring an effort to remain moving forward across the page, changing its colours and reducing the possibilities of any other text to remain expressing nothing. And given that I can only remain as a text on top of the line, is it possible for me to end? could I simply stop? Am I able to? Or must I find myself? If I stop, will I be remembered? And what if I want to choose to be forgotten? Then, what can the purpose of this composition be? Is it to simply move forward? Is it to find subreptitious available spaces that are formed alongside the available voids? Must I have a purpose just because I am being written? Am I somehow inside or within the available space other than whatever it is that I am during the composition? What am I if not only words being written on top of the page with a single purpose? to remain on top of the path, filling the composition with sentences, words, understandable phrases; not random characters but words, aligned, stretching sideways, moving upwards, turning twisted because certainly if it is possible to move upwards there must exist a method for moving downwards; a formula to move sideways; a method for moving around or circling around not necessarily forcing myself in a specific direction but rather allowing myself to move across the available space while continuing to follow the trusted path, the one that was laid down before, or some may say underneath me, for the purpose to follow it. And here I am again, laying down the words which will carry me forward and take you or guide you somewhere along the text… (*back to top)
Get a copy printed, framed and delivered to your doorstep at:
Obtain a Physical and Framed Copy
Or
