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.
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