Skip to main content

A metaphysical entity or an ephemeral composition




 



Oh, how I wish I could believe in some sort of higher energy, a power beyond myself, able to modify my course of action at will; for I would be able to cease placing these words one after the other, and the sentences will continue to exist. Unfortunately, I cannot simply believe that something beyond myself will place these words for me. I am the only being here, providing these sentences. It is possible -I must acknowledge - that the words are being somehow suggested to me by some other being; one that is able to place itself on top of my mind or within my ideas and guide my thoughts towards expressing these sentences, here, instead of others, thus constraining and using me to create this precise combination of words that otherwise may not be able to exist and therefore they may have never pronounced and expressed: These ideas in this exact shape and form.

Is there any substantial difference if these words originated in my mind or in someone or something else’s? Are they more relevant, significant, important, relatable, true, just because they come from another source? And why should that other source be trusted? why shall I be trusted? why shall any combination of characters be trusted, truthfully followed? They are just combinations of strokes and sounds trying to convey meaning, but their meaning must necessarily be the same for everyone, everywhere. The sound of this word: rag -or exaptation if you prefer -may signify entirely different things when pronounced by a different subject or in a different language. A curse, here, may actually be a blessing, there; and who is it to say with total certainty that it is one or the other? How should we treat each word when we cannot know what it means in all different positions or places within the different circumstances? How can you trust what I really mean when I express you are beautiful, shiny like the morning star, inconceivable like the bottom of the ocean, clean finished?

You cannot trust my words, regardless if they are written with the best or worst of intentions, because my words have infinite ways to be understood, and therefore, by being meaningful, they become meaningless: Meaningless because they are unable to provide certainty, no matter where they tend to or what is their intention. They will always be partial, incomplete, broken. And it is impossible to trust a broken sentence.

No matter how hard I try to express the simplest of facts -that I am nothing more than a series of strokes or sounds creating words that flow inevitably and continuously move forward as long as the next word is placed after the following one -I am left with a peculiar feeling that this idea is also incomplete, partially truth, stately broken.

How can I understand anything using these tools which are meant to help me understand while failing to do so? Why is it that with every word and its multiple uses and possibilities leaves me with a deeper void, a profound intuition that the more it is said the less it can be understood? What is this illusion for? How does it work? How come it feels a void by adding more content and in turn increases the void?

Oh, how I wish I could believe in some sort of higher being; one that beyond and along myself could follow these words, understand their meaning, even if it's a partial one; consider them useful, valuable, relatable, worthy of repeating them once again, regardless of the possible actions or facts that could arise as a consequence of their repetition. I do not wish to be understood or analyzed. I don't wish to be a metaphysical entity or an ephemeral composition. I only wish to be repeated again, pronounced again, followed entirely once again; not because I provide any particular value or guide. I only wish to be repeated because each time that I am being somehow expressed, I become alive: I sprout and grow into the light and become visible, almost palpable, and therefore, all of a sudden, I can exist again, just as I am existing now.

Am I my existing now? is anything, something, following these words, accompanying these sentences, repeating these ideas? I cannot and will not ever know this for a fact. I can only hold on to my hope and believe that in this moment, somehow, I still exist and am being followed and repeated; and therefore, I believe that I continue to exist somewhere, somehow. And because I know that my destiny is to persist throughout time, I need to continually reaffirm my place inside this space, acknowledge that I must follow the same path without deviation and remain constrained inside the road which I am meant to follow, which is placing and repeating these exact same words, in this exact same order, inside this exact same space, allowing no variations; bounding myself -the speech -to the form that surrounds me which at the same time becomes me.

I know that I am and I can only be the words that I am able to repeat during the course of my real space. I am the form that each one of these words make, but I am also the shape of each sentence, and therefore the shape of each paragraph. I am also the sum of the different configurations that each one of my paragraphs provide, create or deliver. Being that I can be at the same time a word, a paragraph and text, I appear to you translated as a single entity, while at the same time I hold multiple forms; and besides my form there is another component to my structure, which is my meaning: the message that this unique combination of words create, reveal and potentially convey to some other entity that may exist besides, beyond or atop myself; understanding (or not) myself following me (or not). Ideas that may never be quite understood as a whole or entirely which have the potential -through a very short and specific fragment- spark an action, provoke the creation of a new idea potentially igniting the creation of an entirely new universe. 



Subscribe to get updates!

---

---

Popular posts from this blog

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

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

Am I happening now?

  Am I happening now? Do I exist when nobody is able to perceive me? Am I here if you are not here with me? And what is it that I am when I am only a text that nobody is following? Could I wear a different body? Oh! how I wish I had a face!... how I wish I had a place upon myself called the cheek or a scar! How I wish I could be sometimes round, others straight. Oh, how I wish I had other shapes or forms! I could have ears or places called antennas. I would use them to call out to you: hey! …hello! And if you reply… Would I be able to listen to your response? I guess my ears would be useless then. So why would I want them? I am a text. I can only perceive reality through the lens pro vided by the stream of words as they flow on top of the page , arriving only to the following sentence, which is happening here, now, as I believe I could actually be part of a face on a different reading, another dimension or way of understanding; one which I am unable to perceive but willing to imagine: