What I will tell cannot be imagined, it is not fiction, but it is put into words, and words, themselves, are a fiction, an agreement of sorts. Because when one writes words, one expects that the reader understand the meaning of those words. For without that, one cannot understand the bigger picture the writer endeavors to display. And the writer, if he is writing, is better off saying nothing at all. “Time, itself, they say, will tell, and the light will reach the eyes of every man, before he falls, and love will take you back here again if you have not known it, and this is fact, and this is the life that you have.” A writer truly at the act, not the business of, but the act, in time immemorial, of recording and testifying to worlds ignored...all of this requires a fundamental belief that the world being perceived is one that is worth the path one must walk to put it to words.
Frankly, we live in a world where many wordsmiths manage their way into positions where they can put their mastery on display, and this is great and grand and freedom, by some definition. It is also an outrageous spray upon the canvass of time, by more individuals than ever, testifying, in their attempts to make it big by identifying with the personal worlds of others through their art, that ought be chronicled, organized, and compilated for what it is, which is a collection of testimonies regarding the struggle of the identity to release itself, and all of the shared imaginations involved in that process. Indeed, when we reach to language, and at the same time to, in fact, communicate, we borrow from the heaviest words, the most known ones, those that have the weight of meaning and can thus pass a message...so the messenger desires and believes, perhaps even with all his heart. But his own conviction betrays him, as I betray my own now by writing these very words. For, in truth, in the absolute truth where feathers and stones fall at the same rate, hit the ground at the same time, there truly is no need to say anything or to even inflict a quote unquote “free” act upon the world or the universe. The only act I should endeavor to know and carry out with my life is that of surrendering my so-called powers, if I ever should, indeed, acquire them, and give them to the greatest power there is. For to do so is to endow my acts with the momentum and power of those which are always acting, regardless of what man does. And this is not a perfection, but simply a different pursuit. It is a different landscape. Man as I, I daresay, do not wish to conquer the material or the ideas or any of that. We wish to be here now in the fullest most complete way. And this requires slaughtering so much of what you know, and even more so, that by which you define yourself. That great nobility, that saintly shame, whatever it may be, is nothing, absolute vanity, if nothing else. It is the cloak of the narrative in which you envelop and involve yourself in this world. But you do not see the world as Paradise. You do not see and experiences the world as you, extended, expanded, and at the same time minimized to nothing. Not because you are a fool, but in part because education does not promote this manner of thinking. It may be that education does not conscientiously guide the evolution of thought and understanding as much as it does the evolution of content and retelling. But I digress. The great woe of the artist and the great man is that it seems you cannot be who you want to be. Society is constantly urging you to be someone else, to be someone that fits in a little better. And if you are righteous and proud, you will say fuck all that, I am me and I will tear this bitch down if I have to, etc. And you might act that out for a while, but ultimately you will need to look forward and see if this path leads to anywhere at all. And here you decide if you want to, indeed and fact martyr yourself for some cause with which your identity is so attached, you actually think it is worth the loss of your life. This can be great, and this can be utterly foolish.
Who is to say what it is. Certainly not I. For I cannot see the whole narrative of life, I cannot predict the unfolding of events, even if I presume them to be guided by a hand or force or being or anything, for that matter. I can only know that I am here and I instinctually want to continue to be here. And so my world should be a place where I would want to continue to be, no matter who I was on Earth. If I were not me, I should still want to be, want to exist, want to know God, for our privileges permit.
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