Where I end Where I begin

A Poem by Blank

Some musings on a state of being.

Where I End Where I Begin

The Sculpted Space

Through the sculpted space of his drugged mind, he contemplated the space that was sculpted in sobriety, and promised himself out of a sense of owing to his awakening, that he would not forget all that he was seeing.

For death, loneliness and the unimportance of crude poetry and bleeding music revealed such a truth of their nature to his devaluating mind.

And he thought then that the deconstruction of all emotion tied to the dying ego should somehow be saved. But such notions only revealed the inescapability of a consciousness from that which it has learned to called its self.

For it was tied inevitably in its detachment to discourses of all things that were within itself, and even devaluation or a subversion still affirms the reality of their being.

And a desire to write and echo the voices of a dead generation that might somehow lend meaning or value to the psychedelia that wished of its own to exist in its own discourse.

And he knew then that it would be reduced to a ‘trip’, but wondered what more it could mean to a mind that believes perhaps unwillingly in the fabrics that cause him to be.

He saw patterns of great meaninglessness, though such values can only be attached through poetic retrospection. And he saw the meaninglessness of all the things he otherwise derived all meaning from, and wondered which was the illusory notion, and came to the only answer he could in a postmodern manner of being, which was that either of them only had meaning in terms of the other.

The world that he’d always seen crumbled, and was replaced now with the mad sensibility that appropriated his perception of before as simply a notion of sobriety.

As all things: all notions; all only notions that do not belong to- or do not require believing- in a present moment that is crude existing.

And he wasn’t a man- either in terms of gender or species- but was only a feeling thing. What he was could only be known according to what he wasn’t.

He is however a man now who has desecrated all that he was by doing all that he wouldn’t have done then. But he assures himself with the life- affirming philosophies of Nietzsche that one can only live in one reality at a time, for all else is only things that are appropriated to discourses of past or future.

He himself is a discourse that is being sculpted on the screen; a concept; a philosophy; the result of an unrandomizing of being.

He is more and less, and anything else that will be sculpted to himself.

He is mine and your suspension of disbelief in the page that is a screen that is a mirror.

He is our child. The gestated being of our imaginings.

The Strangered Face

Wandered like a vagabond the next day. Out of body experiences do affect one indefinitely. Thought of having seen the self from an other’s vision, but it was only from the eyes of another within the same self.

The experience of one is always communicable, but the truth of what has been heard will never be known. For all communication is a politics of misunderstanding, a misunderstanding that appropriates power.

But the greatest misunderstanding is of the self when one thinks they are the self. No. They have only made the self. Stranger faces seen in terms of sex or maintaining of the estrangement, though inaction is not seen as consequential.

Estrangement of the grotesque, sex with beauty. And the face in the mirror only seen for how it may be perceived.

Sex of the grotesque is an estrangement of beauty.

Such valuation is deplorable anyway.

The strangered face in the mirror. Seen in terms of sex and estrangement. Thinks to feel aroused by the image.

But the desire only reveals the hope for acceptance.

As with all things, it is easy to believe in the normalcy of anything one sees for too long.

Until the forgetting and one sees in the stranger the strangest things.

And left with no idea of how to make sense of such strangeness once the stranger is known to be oneself.

And an only way is to see the face as belonging to the sculpted space.

The Worded Precipice

On a ledge of great significance signified by all that death has come to mean; as an other to life. As an other to the dreary, plundering, slugging through that is life.

Or is it only so for what death has come to mean? Does a knowing of such a thing change anything? For the knowing of anything is full of an uncertainty. An uncertainty that is a characteristic of life. Or at least so it has come to be believed through the ideologization of all experience.

The great precipice that I stand on is one I have created. One I have willed to be a precipice. A precipice for change of some kind. Perhaps change from life to death, or life to another life.

But he had thought then that existence was simply a feeling, and that the naming of things was an illusion. But I do not agree with the attached value to that statement. I say that it is a necessary illusion.

The precipice lets me know of where I end and where I begin

Even though I know of how I only continue

From being to being to being

With a million precipices that I have jumped from along the way

And I almost believe in the reality of the change

When I see the height from which I have fallen

Even though each precipice looks exactly like the last-

-Jump.

To Continue

And heroes and lovers and friends and strangers and me and him. We’re all a part of what I know to be the self.

All a part of the other.

This is no foreshadowing of change, for change has no foreshadowing. It simply happens. Or simply is. The happening itself only lies in the observation of it.

But to hell with semiotic correctness and ego deaths!

To hell with trying to deny that all things I can only appropriate to a discourse of the self. Even you....

But I will appropriate you as one not to be appropriated as such. For at least in consciousness, I can be better than when not. The psychedelia was real, and it shall be. But it doesn’t have to change things. Or rather, I don’t have to look for it.

Has something already changed?

I think so.

A part of me was erased from somewhere and pasted here-

For you to read,

Friend, Stranger, Hero, Lover, Self.