The exhaustion of the hero’s ego is his hatred—let him hate it too, and cry.
At the mercy of what harrows me, I become the dancing arrow of rejection’s blatancy, so that I cannot tell apart love of the future from my distaste for the present’s tepidness. To crave intensity is to bury oneself in a soil of indecency, knowing that the transgression is as ridiculous as the dilemma itself. Our chain to death made everything possible to our blindness and courage. Insignificance was our one call line: it’s what we pursued when every worldly pursuit proved done and corruptible. That drive brought us to our “solitude,” no, our awayness, our exile from the legible and thinkable. Only in this way did we deem it possible to gain trust. Our new desire was to submit ourselves to that law alone, singularly, and thereby to identify ourselves in life with god’s dust.
To be done with spitting out a bad infinity of theoretical riddles! And in the exact same commitment: to be done with the brutish buffoonery of pragmatism, realistic attitudes, democratic consensus-building, and all the other boring atheisms beholden to prevailing machinations of power. Enough with the bauble of the hour! That book lost its ritual magic eons ago.
To regiment instead a form (of forgiveness as of intensity, it amounts to the same break with presentness) is not possible: improvisation in contemplation losing itself in prayers dedicated to the indestructible oneness of the literate (human) offering was the only “option” left for the heavenly trust once exposed.
Stone of steady silence in blood, erupting with intimations that could please an exploded sun: what a “perspective” to take on the gravity of singularity, what a buzz to match the immortal fun of catching rays! How else to account for the deliberate making of ashes? (I take an infinity to decide, but once I decide, all I do is listen.) How else to abandon all glory of the one, and to destine it instead to what’s coming? (This time, this is the extra time in which I live: time of love of contact.)
What is a vision in words? For example: all that ever happens, all that we ever see, is but the ash falling off a flame which will remain forever invisible, which to that extent doesn’t “exist”?
The difference between a visionary of images and one of words is only a difference in modes of faith: the prophet means to instill it by scaring or dazzling, such that the audience holds on to the image and fears it; the writer means to obliterate it, to make the image hesitate in its definition and erase itself, to leave it forgotten in the spirit, such that the belief it teaches is radically “skeptical,” unbelievable, unmaintainable and thus demanding revisions—pure vision subtracting itself from images as praxis: as constant (abyssal) reevaluation and deliberation in the burial of every scene of vision (tragicomedy).
Articulation thus oversees the word’s progress into oblivion: it has meant this way to mean nothing, and in meaning nothing to drive the responsibility of vision to its darkest day, its bluest gaze.
How to distinguish between the obliteration of self and messianic illusion? The critic is the blind spot in his reason. The adventure’s all yours, if you can need it.
How will we ever learn to recognize each other’s injury—that we’re invalids for life, dis-abled for good? Worse than all the pain, even up to our paralysis, is misrecognition: the bullshit, that it should all keep trudging on like normal.
The trouble is always to mix the present up with the elation. “Ecstasy” exists in a vacuum of communication that is too drunk to pound out its words. (The future’s pull is contact, returning every move to its use; the present can only relate such moves in fragmented form. But there is a beyond of the fragmentary form: it is the demand of our being’s mode.)
Baseline on the outbound of the free, captivate me, “prove” to me the contact despite relation, echo me in the repetition of your touch, so trustingly other and complete.
For the treasure’s repeat, sound just again on the sword; tear in the fight onward to the eclipse of fear.
The story to end all stories is a quiet one, generated by presence in the most obscure ways.
You cannot not be seduced by a world; remember only, it is a transition: undergone eternal. (The comedy is glad to buy you time after the fact.)
Bringing “what I did” to nothingness: that was the meaning of the present in which everything I did could be lost. Deciding when the withdrawal was possible was impossible: it happened more often than being.
Ignoring the other was an evil with two sides: you’re the ignored one or you get to ignore the other one. To make a habit of both is happiness.
Sharing silence: the perfect saying. This would be a way to have everything—like praying.
This way of recoding demands all its sequels, every trace and present unequal (absolutely) to all their equals.
The minute you can leave me alone I’ll know you love me, that you’ve taken the risk of ease, oblivion, departure into the heart kept away in safety, indestructible and ever worthy of the trust we forget to give it.
Or perhaps I’m just an addict, gunning for the bottom of my pain. (You’ll forget whatever didn’t disappoint you, in other words everything.)
The other excels at reflecting back your ghost, thankfully.
Undeveloped, cut-off abruptly or after long perseveration, the trails all end in sorrows from the perspective of advancement, development, organization, establishment of truth or system or coherent fiction or even thesis statement, a most naïve basis or quick conclusion:
To put the step into thought means—with the vigilance of one fearing for their eternal soul—to restore the stepping of the step in each step, so that at no point an actual prior step can be presumed to exist, no trail whatsoever traveled: such would read an ethics of thinking as a practice of the other self.
Traveling full bore into the non-sense of a misspent life—the freely chosen trap without obligation or command, the listening gesture lost in the movement of all beings beyond all work and time—attached to them as unforgettable, as being forever only what they’re capable of: use in care of the inappropriable-irreparable-unthinkable: us.
My only one offering, my only one personal gift: to forever disappear into this (sadness, the perfected side of bless, connecting every mistaken instance to the Riß of unmissing and peace): seduction beyond belief, beyond being…
The irony of bliss would be: no one is talking to you. That would be the majesty of the other’s specter in me, living that I might again see.