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.
Get a copy printed, framed and delivered to your doorstep at:
Handwritten following this ruling:
