‘I’ think it’s ‘important’ to asserverate my supposed neutrality: that is, that thoughts towards another or ‘self’ when inevitably tinged: with regret, anger, anxiety, melodrama and fleeting ecstasy being the most prevalent-occur to always be compensated by a super-ego like opposition : ‘‘no, what you hallucinated wasn’t a flying witch with scissors; yes, you were being presumptuously hubristic to X which created layers of miscommunication’’. However doesn’t everyone make the same mistakes (the other side retorts that isn’t a rational argument nor a justified one, lest you could argue for anything under such a caveat - ‘I know he killed his neighbour but doesn’t everyone make mistakes...’’- this version of meta-reflection through the mechanism of analysis creates a frustrating anxiety which render all of one’s intuitive thoughts, feelings, actions as having (1) no meaning or value : ‘you’re just going to die anyway; what’s the use in worrying – a typical nihilist response although depending upon mood and if predisposed to depicting truth (that we/‘I’ love to pretend is impossible or doesn’t exist, so as to alleviate personal responsibility -N:‘you’ really ‘believe’ that?!-), the non-‘I’ accepts this in resignation.
The defendant informs the recollection again that if one says ‘‘but if nothing matters, why live on...’’ (presuming that values mean nothing subjectively, that there is no preference), which is absurd given those remarks themselves, and every biological process that informs everything to us has a preference which it elaborates/decides through a rule-structure of some-kind; ever evolving in a path of evolvement (positive/negative judgements notwithstanding). This creates a means of clarification, a diversion against a simulacrum of competing chaos-states, a white noise of enmitic forces (or would their simply be silence? Then one’s own senses would be irrelevant if their foundation is to be a prophetic Sibyl to the future – but isn’t future non-existent? Isn’t time an imposed illusion to create an order that is preferable so as to be recognized and applied functionally––an evolutionary clock as steward to impel being to constant regeneration? Ah, but how would such questions be answered without degrees of construction that allows at least a preponderance of human endeavours to be lied bare before the great infinite chasm (But isn’t the infinite an abstract universal not actually true in reality? - but what are you implying by reality? Simply conscious awareness? The senses are highly unreliable, particularly when one’s narration of events is a completely flawed elaboration attempt from an ‘objective’ perspective (which would be a multi-dimensional, 360 degree view not that of a pinpoint).
O, you accumulated biases, you habits! How ‘I’ revile and need you simultaneously; from which ‘I’ concoct my individual opinions and theories, themselves reliant upon others ‘I’ have read, heard or otherwise (utilizing my egregious senses), who they apply trust in others yet unknown to ‘me’ tautologically – in a series where nobody is truly sure of anything and everybody relies upon their immediate ‘spheres of interaction’, supposing an omniscient human with purported access to all sanctities of worldly knowledge (thereby required to be written if to survive beyond the bearer) imported to us as a ‘divine father’; so that we may be kept ‘safe’ from interposition of the mysterious or bizarre, or intrusion to which we have revulsion against; or lest worse that which would denigrate our pride (you may have more if you deny it) revealing our innumerable human adequacies (which my writings ever cruelly admonish ‘me’ in every sentence – in light of ‘self’-criticism [an accurate description of roguish tendencies peeling-desquamare this imbecilic mannequin ‘self’. ‘It’ even sounds echoes of a preposterous fairy tale for those who cannot endure its ‘true’ absence -i.e., everyone]). Hence doesn’t aforesaid timidly bespeak to us how unfamiliar we are to ourselves, when the words spoken are that of another and syllables are etched incorrectly – you have written this word thousands of times, why continue to make these puerile mistakes? The recognition leads ‘me’ to think that every novel – as the contribution to the tome of the diaspora of languages – is really concerned with authoring in shame and outlining sardonically the deviations of our failings from an ideal ‘self’; the ‘I’ which (at least for ‘me’) is inevitable and never in reach––the subject. Ultimately novels are the dictionary catalogue to the continual expanding list of ignorance, misrepresentation's, and fuck-ups; our human frailties.
But how do we embrace the unknown substance with divine qualities, the gaping abyss, the absurd void, the frontier of becoming against that what we define the next moment? Or perhaps even conflictions against the present moment, ever passing, unreachable, not present enough to be comfortably settled in; that what we are ‘spite perpetually aware of : that our thoughts themselves are never in the ‘now’ since they originate from a time antecedent; that everything ‘I’ write originated from impulses ‘I’ve already had, those whose motives ‘I’ can never know, ‘unconscious’, yet whose experience ever-imprints and conditions upon ‘me’; without my conscious acceptance or tolerance—the ever chased, manifestant impenetrable time which itself penetrates itself upon all beings’ consciousness, while haunting the dead into caricatures of a ravaged fame (particularly when one feels a melancholic impulse inevitably leverage profusely enhanced flavourings of sehnsucht : and so it has begun, lava spewing over accepted bodily surfaces, shattering immediate glass spectacles so that one becomes blind; shards sent incisively toward, in those startled evacuation of oxygen these daggers lodge inside all vulnerabilities; lodged in one’s mouth so as not to decry this ravaging impossible search – nor wish mediate contentment with a previous strata of hurt (imagine yourself bearing an immense headache while desiring for sleep to soothe these tinnitus permutations that prevents one thinking with any lucidity, making one spontaneously schizophrenic—from life there has been granted an interval to leisure in minds’ tumultuous wretchedness —yes; while not being able to alter posture one hairbreadth lest mouth forever aphonic : it cuts you everywhere...the sanguine sluice (wasn’t it irresistible?) cascades in viscous stampedes that transmogrify into middle-finger semiotics now suddenly floating, pointing themselves into your eyes : and you (‘me’?) think ‘I’ am becoming delusional (become! Ha-ha!) - while you feel dreadful vegetation of being, paralyzed when realizing that it’s your voice that’s speaking external to you..with trails of laughter? Yes, the trail spews mortar & dust in your eyes and mind as your being raises it’s WTF questioning-level elevating into a further special circle of hell where this ouroboros has chained you to a race-track whose competitors are your same self, unaffected by your confused heaving - & anxious feeling – as you realize maybe you hadn’t been breathing all along, maybe you need some oxygen to relieve the tension : but as you decide to inhale some sweet-water of tolerance (please, just to reduce the ache’s so ‘I’ can bear) – you recollect to the lodged glass in mouth, that surreptitious dagger that has slain (?) & now crushes your inside throat-muscles; the fibrous dams have obliterated and sanguine fluid belches from your mouth in a final retching-come-delight as the imagined ‘I’ in control of self may have been taken over; might have been slain so as to show you wondrous lakes of tribulation where sculpted boulders float bubbling amongst the violent storm of your mind – your eyes are punctured and blurring, the dreaded headache jarringly returned for feasting – as the eyelids begin to flutter something foreign that may appear to be salted water-droplets, an (instead of wonder) that has become polluted by this vermeil fluid; a ‘life’-stream that wants to tell you something—it finally whispers in angelic voice, your own somehow, distorted, it tells you to focus upon the glass-sculptures as they gorge themselves upon rosé while remaining transparent : and it thinks you ‘get it’ - know that the line between here and now and us and them and life and death is a very short joyride – always dangerous—dissociation settles as galaxies collide (when you merge into others) : as the reason why you say ‘you’ because there is no ‘I’, we are all together in an essence that condenses into pain; a luscious pain whose feeling you only ever know when you break the snow-globes of self-assurance – stabilized on an expanse termed ignorance – but you decide you prefer hurt through self-medication best when it is repeated so it lets the ice-sculptures arise from malorous-inducing swamps – (in it’s show-trial, to let the real games begin as the ice-sculptures are grasped by five connected tree stumps whose bark flays themselves as entertainment spotlights permeate every white clothed (X?) above contralto cherry-voices heralding speakers shouting OPPOSITES! OPPOSITES! - as you can only really know the experience of a mind through the eye’s of another : and the icicles rain down upon sandy-blanc dunes; allowing volcano eruptions spewed ruby-lava in coordinated movements – where dunes are cleaved between ruptured by a charging matador; the wooden branch incized end-to-end—now the matador’s joviality has finished, icicles are murmuring in-hand, they tell you that when senses deceive you should see the opposite truth : the icicles are now Navajo chieftain’s that have scalped all unnecessary flesh which had become wild undergrowth, obtrusive thicket—and you thank them for having the courage to show you truth in a world of deception as your lips (another word for gorge) murmur in silence ‘happy’ thank-yous for being refreshed from anxious tension : the streams’ grooved life-scars prove to you that something resembling life has been lived, something alike to time has passed; you thank the icicles, you thank the mastodon for reminding you anguish is really sumptuous if you can handle it : and you await in knowing anticipation that when the ‘I’ breaks again blood will flow happy.
