I wrote a one-line draft — one must endure — with a sense I would not complete it. I searched for films on loneliness, for writing is a solitary task. I made a habit of trying hard, but never particularly hard enough. I avoided realisations, you see, I feared breaking the enchantment of my ignorance. The vow of one who fears life(?): to long for nothing and to surrender in advance.
If I was away in body, I would still be here wouldn’t I?
I taught myself I had conjured desolation in a stagnant decade of self-pity.
And yet I wondered why, years later, I could not I bid it leave.
is it a cruel form of desperation that compels you to defuse yourself in fear of your own implosion?
is it cruel because it is a task for your hands alone? in all others it would be unholy sterile violence
in yours, it is an act of wistful love, as delicate as a naturalist loosening a butterfly’s wings
sometimes, with requisite mourning, you must fragment your absoluteness
at times, when fractured you are more tenacious than when whole
I want a self-concept that is not based on comparison and comparative accumulation I want love that is immanent, rather than a continuous decontextualised abstraction I want my realisations to materialise from perspicacity into a holistic methodology for approaching various facets of life I avoid
We are, most of us, at this stage in life, a collection of fabricated images, endlessly reflecting off each other. Lunar in our desire to adorn ourselves with some glimmer of that light that makes others glow so brightly in our mind’s eye; mirror-like in our desire to imitate states as polar as the normal and the extraordinary. I can only talk in metaphors, is it because I fear absoluteness or because I have neither the words nor the honesty to acknowledge banality for what it is? (Also, why is it honest to look banality in the eye?)
But no, there is only structure, and circumstance. And all of this we work to tear, so the abstraction of personhood, receding farther and farther from the graspable realm, at last assumes its vapourous presence, floating indistinctly somewhere right above us.
Personhood, as a longing to inhabit a body that sighs in recognition of itself in the company of others. Personhood, as a longing to belong to yourself and to belong to all persons, nonparadoxically.