Lost; all the words–syllables, every sound hollows; there was breath repeated,satiating the sting of life, was a rhythmic progressiondrawing out the silent thoughts, immutable transmutations,the pulsing of sustenance exhausted searching ofthe inconstant constancy, each sound swept silenteach sign left open, naked with each inscription meaningmeaning and meaning nothing
– It was before the revolution- the cycle of revolving, the revolution to the beginning. So then, what was the point? Before the revolution, we had not arrived at an end, had not returned to a beginning. We were static, as a point. Stasis as a pretended movement, available to eyes, and not bodies, a direction towards which we might move. So this was before the revolution. After the revolution; in the collapsing of a cycle of revolving, thus collapsing an ending into a beginning. Recidivist? So then, what was the point?
-I dreamt we had a conversation. Words between us, syllables interspersed between breaths in the space between the u and the i, and the ideas behind these signs. Signifiers signifying intent, between two signified signifiers. The words, the sounds, lose all breath, in the aftermath of waking. There was the attempt at meaning, at bridging the chasm, the universe between two consciousnesses, yours and possibly mine, or possibly just the one without sign.
-When no one is looking I believe in possibility and dreams when no one is looking, that they will not be snatched from my hand like the sparrow by the zen master Grasshopper, when no one is looking, in that moment of disregard the breath between breathing and being, the quick blink to wet the eyes the moistened tongue to mend parched and cracking lips the same which no longer sing the song of hope and merriment when no one is looking there’s a quiver the almost formed word, which might set the world ablaze when no one is looking, […]
-It fractured, so fragile. Who’d have thought? Sharp, the pieces, creating wounds And in time, will it matter, faded like everything? Only the resonance continues beating in the heart.
-So where are you the tides are slowly shifting the grains of sand, filling the crevices between the cracks every break you can’t turn back and where am I scattered pieces and I’m searching ruptured dreams so that I’m scratching at a door that will not open and time is wearing thin my soul, it’s growing weary my eyelids fall don’t want to let the light in can’t face another morning don’t want to wake my body troubling my soul
-There is something unresolved… something there, which remains, like the shard from the white porcelain shell on the beach, the one which refracts the light as the sun is on its slope, that sharp refracted ray that blinds you as you walk along the crashing waves… it’s like that, the remnant which creates the genesis of a lack of resolution
-There is a thought, or was a thought, and if nothing else there continues to be a thought which contains nothing more than a recollection of the initial thought. That idea that there was something magical in moments perhaps now lost completely, even in the sediment of memory. Moments, which like all other moments can never be recaptured or recreated and would feel false if reenacted. Yet there is or was something magical in those moments…where is the magic… even as the moments have crumbled and the depictions on caves’ walls have faded with time, the magic does not, but […]
-Where do I fall when I fall? How do I start over and why didn’t I start when I was there? Why is each choice, each avenue a different life? Why so many worlds on one earth? As years become days, how does time stretch so far and become so heavy? Why does dust always gather on eyelids? And when I blink, why am I not awakened? Does suffocating ever heal a body? Does laughter burn more than tears? If I’m aware of every moment do I ever rest? Will I ever live if I’m half asleep?
-I want to believe in breath as it enters and escapes the body, believe it does more than simply expand the chest and become molded into sound. I want to believe in syllables, in their endless combinations, in the wonders and the mysteries that can be built from them. I want to believe in words, believe they are real, believe they carry weight and add to the ounces of the soul.