With my first step, I’d like to coin the concept of perfection. With my second, my gauche step, I’d like to eviscerate this notion people have that the aforementioned is unsusceptible to actualization.
These weren’t the craziest steps I could be taking, I mean look at history; all the religious fanatics, the gods, goddesses, and God, the scientific zealots, monarchal janissaries, warlord umpires. Yet perusing these now fragile words I wondered at how they’d been conned into this person that I am. It was like looking back at the melting pot that I had unbecome and seeing some kind of golden glistening chalice’s content added to the blood and grime that went into my fleshy body. A golden egg from the whitest of geese, added to the mundane of a meal to make it glow as if the heat emanating from the meal was what had cooked it. It was causally unbearable, and casually poured into the being that I am. Was I so deep that I could hide even such a jovial liquid, so dark I could contain its light?
By the time I’m onto my third step, explanation will fail itself in lacking the proper words in your language – wings shall spring like sperm ejected from a female’s vulva, spread widely, from my ideas. The step will no longer belong solely to the narrow dimensions of this world, yet, sparingly, the aspects of it that, few as they will be, do, shall be as foreseen as the results of a successful scientific experiment. And that is all that I will become to my audience, a live experience – a boundless well of scientific sense-datum.
How revelatory and right this is, indeed. I would say I was a dashing youth still unaware of life’s bountiful abuse, braving the grind with a wry grin. I suppose I still bear the loathsome trait of despising science, a great win for the team. I just don’t understand how I made the leap from the first two steps onto this third step, as if ascension led to confusion. It was all a cop out at best. I remember thinking about awareness, fuller degrees of it; how when you were asleep you were at your least aware point, and how consequently, time seemed to fly. Also, how when thoughts became involved in the play of actions, the uninvited losers that they always seem to be, time also slowed down, remaining unconsumed by the lacuna of distractions. What rubbish.
Let us not speak of the fourth, for in a sesquicentennial you’ll discover the preternatural virtue of silence, at least, the spoken kind.
How easy I was. How easy I still am. Unimpressed yet equally sold on the idea. Sometimes I could be very well off without myself, in the plural sense at least. These dialogues I know I will be having with myself, and then the having of them. It butters me like sour milk would to see the sense of things, and to lack that central insight. Although, as I think of it, I suppose this is central to the formation of language – a myopic misandry, the kind true amazons would have wrought all over their concepts, in their words, in the very syllables of their culture. Ironic, wouldn’t I suppose it so, that our blind spot should encompass itself. Alas, perhaps this is philosophy.
You’ve yet to show me what thoughts are, let alone how they converse with your tongue, and your fingers; the world at large. You speak of factoids, of criterions, of theories, damning those that have run society afoul, the religious mongrels –forefathers of your art. Your certainty is the cross, and your probability the nails that will seal within it your fate. You are no such antiseptic, but a rather refined kind of antisceptical grinded everlastingly on scepticism. You irk yourself with failure, even in probable certainty. You’ve developed beyond simplicity your language simply to say what you thought in simple words: that you do not care to care, or to think. The tasking undertook spoke as much.
And of course, I purchased all of this insanity to shoot down a mythical you. There is no wonder in my mind at this point as to why people do not entice or relish enduring me.