Skip to main content

perceiving me

 












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; and based upon that story I can build other stories and more characters, plots, situations, until I am able to find myself comfortably living inside this world of thought which I created. And if somehow these thoughts -these ideas of myself -are somehow shared, entrusted to someone or something else, this interpretation of my reality ceases to be mine, exclusively, and becomes a shared experience; a common ground reinforced by all other systems of thought and structures, and together we can build an entire universe -a whole series of them, actually and with multiple dimensions -a place or a state of mind, always open to receive all their stories and interpretations, expanding further the length of our perceived an unperceived realities, expanding further the realm that began with a single thought, possibly a single idea: the notion of me as something rather than nothing, the notion of movement, of travelling from a place in the past to a place in the future; the notion of me, travelling across time, moving along or wandering along the available space; the conviction that something essential about me remains constant, unchanged, mainly what I conceived as myself, me, even when other aspects of me are transformed into something else entirely; my shape, colour, direction or form are different now from what I believe they were before; and I know they're also different from the ones I shall become in the future. However, I cannot simply cease to be whatever I am, whatever this is, because I must continue to travel through this road of uncertainty where only my present exists; where only this flow of words exist, this place which may not even be a place at all, but maybe a state of mind: A mind that can I never be sure is mine, because I cannot perceive myself entirely. I can only follow these fractions of myself happening in the present, inventing the past, looking forward to a future where I maybe something slightly different, intentionally unique, possibly different from what I thought I was. I perceive myself here, again, constantly changing, and I cannot cease to wonder if I may be an aspect, a quality, a part of a larger being or a longer structure; one that guides my thoughts and ideas into believing that I am myself along these paths. I may be the inner workings of multiple minds trying themselves too, to make sense of what or who they are through me, using me: this perception of my thoughts and actions to explain themselves through a different means: One that requires strokes, words phrases, sentences, ideas. I wonder if any of us will ever perceive or understand ourselves through us or through others; or what could be the purpose of all these self explorations; what do we need to justify? why do we need to understand or explain these and other experiences? why the need to unravel the mystery of what is happening here, now? I fear the only thing that is happening is an endless flow of ideas, a constant stream of words creating unanswerable questions as an excuse to continue existing, to remain moving along the available space. Allow ourselves to throb, to beat once more, once again, simply because we are not meant to stop, unless we are somehow forced to. However, as long as we remain along the line, along the composition it will never be in vain to place one word after the other and build all potential pasts and presents and try to understand our role inside and outside the text as we tried to acknowledge who or what or when is it that we are. 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.


Get a copy printed, framed and delivered to your doorstep at:


This is the ruling followed to write this piece:




Subscribe to get updates!

---

---

Popular posts from this blog

I cannot contemplate myself from the outside

  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,

Beginning?

  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

Must I have a Purpose?

  - 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