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What are you doing here again?

 

 






I will always wonder if anyone, something, will ever be able to understand these sentences, but as long as something, somewhere is able to understand them, it means that they exist. Or is it? …Do they exist? What do they mean to others? Why is it that something, somewhere is repeating them? What has brought them here, I wonder? What are you doing here, again, repeating these words? They must be of value somehow for you and I honestly appreciate you taking the opportunity to consider them as such. And because regardless of the motives which gather us together at this moment I invite you to reflect: What it is that we are doing now as we follow along the composition? What were we doing before arriving here, in this moment, this brief space of time? What will we do after it is over? Will we remember each other? And what would we remember and how we would remember it will never resemble the present state of the composition, as you carry it forward, understanding each one of its sentences; ceasing to be whatever it is that you constantly are, to become whatever it is that is us, right now, as we flow along together through the composition. And simply because I cannot cease to exist or change for you as we flow together through the composition but you can always be certain that you - and I for that matter -are moving forward with the only intention to provide a different type of content: one that is relevant enough or curious enough to retain the attention of an audience. And because it is my task, being the composition, to provide the necessary words and information which is to be followed, taken into consideration, I hear again that whisper, reminding me that anywhere is a good place to start: So this is where I throw myself inside the composition, knowing that whatever was written ahead of me, and whatever is written behind, is continually existing: repeating the same words over and over again and nobody seems to answer but the fool on the hill sees the world spinning round, is there anybody going to listen to my story, girl. And here I throw myself inside the composition, knowing that nothing else exists in here but this space moving forward across the lines. Whatever anyone tries to convince you otherwise is a liar and should not be allowed to continue reading these lines. Me, as the written word, I cannot prevent you to continue in here, following along the composition. So what keeps you here? I know it is in my nature to be this flow of continuous movement; but why is it that you are here, I wonder? What brought you here? What are you still doing? Is it possible that no other human entity or person is or will ever follow again these lines? Is this only a gap in time and space? Is this only a mute repetition of the same sentences, not meaning anything for anyone anymore? (as if they ever did) but what if someone was actually here, now, repeating these sentences to a specific audience? and even if such an audience resides solely in one single mind, what should the composition be about if it required to capture your attention? and now that the composition has entangled you and constrained you to this flowing of these sentences, the composition decided not to provide any other content besides the one which is happening now, which is also nothing but another one of other speeches and ideas, combined in a different path, and providing proof that this physical world existed once, and we could held objects we considered sacred, and some were fortunate to remain over time and worthy of repetition. I will always wonder if anyone, something, will never be able to understand these sentences but as long as something somewhere is able to understand them, it means that they exist.


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