Category: Writer

Neo-Post-AD: Metaphysical Crisis #1: beyond the evolution of personal spin.

We all need reliable and stable alter-egos; those that are not tethered to the vacillating selves of a singular psyche, that is (if possible) distinct from the universal soup of being; tirelessly (but not always) shaping and performing a history, a story, as a means to capture, understand, relate the inconvenience (not always) of establishing (or abolishing) connections; a network in which to play, playback or perhaps destroy (inadvertently or otherwise) via scapegoats and other trickery. 

This is not the great deception nor the dissembling of purpose, forsaking deception (aha, the doubletake) for a life of ambiguity and intrigue. I'm not even convinced that it's possible to be something else; to aspire; to formulate a difference for all to conceive. Is this some kind of existential intervention  mating with the flux in and out of time? Is there a conjunction with which we agree will propel, dispel, assimilate, regurgitate some presence worthy of an audience? These are the imponderables we attempt to expostulate, perhaps to expose or explain.

No. Simply no. Nothing so plain to see. Lean in and listen; you can almost hear the breath of colours and their flavours. For a moment you touched and became someone else, but this has 

to be continued, 


(Out there, out on a limb: I eat meat therefore I am meat, therefore I eat myself.)

Sometimes the incongruous makes a familiar and outstanding appearance, in the hope to be recognised and accepted into the communal fold. I think therefore I fail to see the relevance of forgetting who I am. It's a bit like:

harmony in a shared bottle of gin;

or maybe not, because I have failed to see the relevance of everything.

Sometimes a period of transition is desirable; or an hour or two of hesitancy, balanced on the tip of your tongue whilst pausing to refresh your mind in order to recite clearly (and emphatically) all that troubles your state of existence. But today, the gifted red rose is proffered to an anonymous guest caught in the ambiant throes of perplexity. What's this? - they ask. And as you attempt to catch your breath, and lose all sense of recognition, you embark on a thorny journey into the heartwarming unknown, which (for an instance) resembles wakefulness.

We should now all contrive to deliver our minds to the wind. We should hard press the crimson petals between the handmade pages of a heavy tome entitled: The Perusal of the Commonplace and the Extraordinary; Being the Effluence of Inspiration in the Time of Our and Other Lives.

If any of this were true would it make a difference? 

Well, someone had to ask.

By: Erchiolano

Share on whatsapp