The light that fills my life, yet that I do or can or will not, ever truly see. Even to believe is not enough though surely it must be. It cannot be not. For if it were, or ostensibly were not, how could it be so? To cry paradox is as the fool, for surely even that which cannot be seen can be known. For so bright as our sun, even when we see not so little as the moon, is felt, inconsequential as it may be. But truly not, though we believe it to be. Perhaps in this way as many it is our familiarity which blinds us, as the sun, but not the moon which proves the sun, but even in the darkness the light. This blindness irreconcilable only as we make it, and yet we. With what purpose, for what cause? For this blindness causes none but pain, as we cannot see. But how can we see this? Or feel, as more earnestly we cannot see. Or can we not earnestly see? Not, that earnestly we can see, but that we cannot see earnestly. | As I dedicate this work of illiterature not to my lover, but to my love. For if my lover were to be, as surely they may, this for they should be not. As perhaps it is all, for naught, but of course it cannot be for naught, for not less than being is already unaccomplished.
Is it selfish? This meaningless tribute to a nonexistent figment of my own longing, an image of myself made with none of my own characteristics? An antihero so to speak, though certainly that is egocentric as it considers myself to be the hero. Is it too far-fetched to think that I might be the villain? Or, minimally, the anti-hero? Not opposing what is right, but certainly in opposition with the right. Or, if I am the hero, certainly a tragic one. But, is it not selfish to consider myself either the hero or the villain? "It's hard to be someone, and it hurts to be nobody." Would it not be rational to consider that in all likelihood I am irrelevant? A mere side-character, if represented at all. Or is it all a matter of perspective? Maybe we are all the main character within our own story. How can we be so bold as to claim a universal perspective? Or perhaps there is an objective truth. Does the sun orbit the earth? It is rather difficult to refuse to acknowledge the truth when the truth is known to all. But how can we claim that there is an objective truth? This question, one to which we beg to receive an answer, yet fundamentally unanswerable by its very nature. Must we even receive an answer? We are certainly not entitled to an answer by some cosmic entity, should such a being even exist.
Is it normal to wish that you were not yourself? Certainly it feels normal, but perhaps it is that very sense of normalcy which is abnormal. Who is to say? In fact, how can such a question be answered? The very nature of language's vagueness prohibits an answer. What is meant by normal? There is undoubtedly a specific connotation around the word, but words are situational. More, words are personal- formed by the very experiences of our lives and the emotions we attach to them. Certainly there is a sort of blunt utility to words, a means to an end for the purpose of simply getting a point across, however they can be and in fact are so much more. Many people liken music to an expression of art, an intimate telling of a personal tale, different upon each performance and holding a new significance to each performer. Is it too unreasonable to see language as much the same? A performance of words, intricate and beholden to the personal whims of the speaker. Certainly speech is akin to music, possessing not only the vigor and intimacy of music, but also its more observable properties, such as rhythm and meter, pitch, intonation, and variability. Further though, even without these qualities speech holds an unimaginable quantity of character and intimacy, being as established so fundamentally rooted in personal experience. This form of language as detached from speech need not even be imagined, as unlike our ancestors for a long portion of history, and much unlike the other species of animals with whom we share this finite earth, humans have established a means of presenting thought far beyond the scope and ability of our meek flesh. The written word: language detached from the body, yet perhaps carrying on wings of paper or binary the soul. Is it unfounded to claim that the expressions of self we find written rather than spoken carry nonetheless the same weight and gravitas? Yet many would claim a word spoken possesses more character, conveying in observably the same unit of language more information to the recipient. Yet is that not the inherent beauty of the unspoken word? It leaves its intentions shrouded in a sense of mistique, allowing the imagination to take flight. Even in cases of bland and informational communication, language is filtered, both by the source and the destination, as all language must be interpreted. It is undeniable that every individual has their own perception of the world, built through an inherently irreplicable amalgamation of unique genetic factors and world experiences. Yet, in spite of insurmountable odds, still doggedly I ask...
titsay
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