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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, love, sin, affection, contrast, hate, fear, attraction, impossible paragraphs meeting or joining together to form a unity; a beautiful and purposeless beauty which -by the way- is also unique. Not unique because it can't be replicated (this may actually be a replica), but unique because each time it is perceived, repeated or not, it is perceived differently: be it because time passed, or the surrounding environment changed, or the eyes and mind set up on it have also evolved and changed. There is no method for looking at the same thing twice. It is impossible to repeat an experience. it can be measured; yes. An outcome predicted, too. But the experience, any experience, occurs only once, because the mind passing over anything constantly changes and moves forward, just as this sentence here keeps moving along. And it does not matter how many times it is repeated -appears to be repeated -it shall never be the same as it was before. It may appear to be similar, something inside the mind insisting it is an exact replica of a previous experience: one that may have happened minutes ago, possibly seconds ago, but it is different: simply because everything around it has changed (some may say “evolved”) and has continued to move forward, just like the wind or the waves on the ocean: everything continuously moving forward; all experiences always unique, mostly alike, allowing this exclusive lapse of beauty to exist now, now, now, as these words travel along the path; seemingly unchanged but constantly different, according to the who and how and when and where and to whom they are being pronounced, insisting on the illusion that they are exactly the same as they were, and that this experience is exactly the same as it was and that there may be nothing new under this sun but repetitions, haste, reflections, reiterations, echoes. Knowing that this stream of words is nothing but a reoccurrence of the same phrases, sentences, ideas contained within the composition, the text shouldn't be in a position to be able to pose a question; and yet, it asks: everything around me and within me appears not to be changing at all. Am I condemned to never be able to perceive my own changes, if any? Am I tied, held in such a way by my circumstance my method, my structure, my surroundings, that I will never be able to perceive me different than what I call myself or me? Differently than what I conceive or have conceived about me, until now? Will I ever be able to perceive myself, despite of me? Away from myself? Outside of me? It is my intention to follow myself until I reach my ending, to accompany each one of these words as they are being placed ahead or before me, knowing that, even though I may never be able to change them, I can certainly reinterpret them; saying that in other unknown languages they may be blessings or curses, lists of names of places, of unknown peoples, forget for a moment that I may have despised or hated myself in my past or in my future; believe that I am something more than nothing. Stop repeating that I am this despicable dull, immovable useless waste of space and time that I am; as useless as the sunset, a rainbow, a teardrop, a fly, an expression, a written sentence, time, hate, sin, affection, love, paragraphs joined together with the intention to form this purposeless unity whose sole virtue is to fail to be unique, simply because it is consistently chained to itself, chained to its structure, tied by the words that were expressed before and the ones that will be expressed in the future; a future which, by the way, resides in the past or in the following sentence. Knowing that my perspective opinion or position within the composition will not force a change up on it; knowing that my intervention will not modify the course of the narrative, I submit myself; I release myself; I let the intention of my influence evaporate and dissolve, leaving of me something that may resemble footsteps, memories told from a place in space and time to another space and time, within the unavoidable composition. Here, left without myself, without course, path or sorrow, I remain vigorously, thankful, traveling along the path; knowing that no higher purpose exists than to keep moving along; to remain upon the line which guides my steps and oh! so naturally, my beliefs. Knowing (intuiting, hoping maybe) that there must exist some uninterpretable structure or intelligence leading each stride, some kind of force which takes my words and willingly transforms them into an entirely different experience, once again. I intend to follow this line until I reach the end.


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