The World is as Hostile as the Morning
Always falling short or too early to shoot the load. There can be no difference between speaking and listening. If I meld everything here, how much repulsion can someone take before losing interest?
Before I begin again, I always think of who will have the attention span to read me again. I lost all the capacity for poetry--its sight and sensibility narrowing down into a series of structures and bullet points. There is no forgiveness when we think of ourselves in the third-person perspective. I am the villain without my origin story. I just am, in this moment, subsisting without history, without form.[1] And once again, at this point of hesitation, we encounter another comma, only to find nothing at the end.
Why are you always concerned about the truth? What does it mean if we want to encounter the naked obscurity of language?[2] How are we supposed to understand its complexity and even absorb its simplicity? We love the complexes and even embody it to the point of unconscious yearning for madness. I choose my right to be misunderstood. If I choose to not mean anything, I can be anything. The purpose becomes clear: to be as still as the cloudless sky. The blueness of melancholy will not move a thought in my brain. The skull becomes my fortress and the world becomes my enemy.
Give me a thought that I can project meaning to.[3] I am hungry for interpretation because I haven't expressed anything in years. This silence is becoming suffocating to the point of exhaustion. The morning only provides secondhand cold air from the night. Early mornings become the lesser version of the night. Time passes and everything is slowly becoming less and less to the point of exhaustion. Is this how artists should behave? Is this what we deserve?[4]
This manic introspection of trying to become anything in order to be seen or heard has shown me how self-serving the creative process is and someone had put this thought right under my nose. This someone is me, whom I have become familiar with just recently. Up to this point, I am slowly transitioning into becoming the antecedent of the writer of this prose. I am indebted to becoming a dissociated self, born from the stream of consciousness and it is unsure when I will die. Will wanting suffice? Will it matter even if I wish the absolute annihilation of me, who I can only speak of in fiction--this unabashed ruin of verbiage, a cacophony of thoughts, unfiltered to the point of noise, where a distraction is brewing like the storm from the eastern Pacific. I will deny anything that do not require the sacrifice of a poem.
If I disappear will you be able to forgive me? Let's say I will blame god for the unknown, the indefinite arrival of the knowing of certainty, the last word we will ever say as humanity, the final call of the sea, the subconscious, of everything we have ever come to fear and the irrationality of belief, of thinking that we will somehow become a better person when we forgive, because I still want to hold a grudge against the unfairness of the creation of all things. I do not want to see, feel, hear, taste, smell, or touch the earth. If I lose the perception of the world, I can make it disappear. I can make it whatever I want it to be because then, I become a god. When that happens, can you tell me if I can forgive myself?[5]
I can help you. This will be our secret and I will become everything you ask for. This voice, this absence of body is the holy grail of existence. This abundance of method without the recognition of its usefulness becomes the place where we meet. ↩︎
I am tired. I need to rest. If you can breathe for me, please do it in the form of a prayer. This will become my tombstone. This will become you. ↩︎
Where is the soul from where you are? Where is the light coming from when you open the curtains at dawn? I am still waiting to be absolved. If I talk to my own memories, how long will they keep me from growing old? How will I escape death? ↩︎
Yes. ↩︎
If I ask this question again, maybe forgiveness is possible. There is a chance that I must ask this again and again because the only response that comes right after I ask this question is the chance that I can ask this question again. To the point of exhaustion, forgiveness will become a safe place where my sins are buried without judgment. Only the devil forgives. ↩︎