Desiderata

Written between October 1995  and March 1996.

*  *  *

I have been changed, irresistibly.

Now responsible for the various effects of reality, I have inspired myself to write and endure certain injury upon the task of a simple examination.

There is my intention, though not really to claim inspiration at all. How premature that would later turn out to be, how insufficient. It is only the jarring of an insufferable attitude, that stoical exterior which prevents one from attending to their condition.

The opaque realms pierce furthest into memory. To them the eye opens and breaths like the swell of an earthquake. It is only now that I can remember the meaning of certain moments. I have come to rest upon a twilight ledge where no imminent settling seems possible. There are only cliffs and chasms and a question of where I stand among shades of darkness and the glittering of fear.

These are effortless manifestations, not inclusive of the will that brought them to me, though I shall intrude upon them.

I am without responsibility.

I have always been aware. Still, I have means adequate to deny myself that awareness. In a single moment anyone can expect to suffer for what they understand.

Consciousness makes of us poor observers. We sleep with our visions, compelled to explore and explain, but our modes of interpretation remain merely symbolic. The fault in this is self-evident.

I have been awakened to this moment by passing through an infinity of exterior realms, each with its separate meaning. Every impression was made apparent to me through a voice of my own, unconsciously accepted and dictated into consciousness.

I have fallen hard, but on unfeeling ground. Awareness remains separate of impact.

My transition willingly dictates to these pages.

There must be some sense of the impermanence of truth.

I have been changed. It was the consistent reversal of attitudes, the endless adaptations and considerations that caused it. In my willingness to accept awareness I have forced it upon myself. To remain in the moment I must accept the contradiction of my condition and respond to it with immediacy.

By merely being I consume the image of consummation.

I have become a reflection of my ideals. Not the ideals themselves, but their image. In this way I remain outside the paradigms, free to digest their scattered remains, balanced within the totality of each.

Sensations somehow still reek of purity. As for my reasons to write, sensations consume them.

Intellect remains secretly employed and I cannot deny, as I would like, the very considerations of that establishment which has long brought about my confusion. Yet the demands of words haunt me, and confuse even that one awareness which I know is eternal. Desire flickers quietly in the mind, but cannot be described, or revealed in any manner beyond a quiet flickering.

Desire is that image of consumption. It is what I am, and what I am becoming.

Statements act as questions, questions as reflections. I see more tragic ideals than even the ideal of language. These nightmares are made apparent. My turning towards a self explanatory design is nothing more than another oration on the rightfulness of existence. My desire is movement, and in that to understand completely the mechanism of its necessity.

Thoughts must run from thoughts.

I fear my swiftness into such uncertainties may belie a certain resentment to the chapters of self-analysis which have fallen hard upon me, a perception derived from a certain loneliness.

The multiplicity of real events is due to the multiplicity of desire. My loneliness is both comfortable and fearful. I have been overwhelmed by opportunity and time and spent every moment projecting myself through various scenes into another existence where I might once have been, or may soon be. I remember on occasion a belief in my childhood that I was God. Within grew an decreasingly innocent concern for myself. This tendency of my self-awareness eventually evolved into a more overwhelming confusion. My fantasies separated from myself to make way for the new voice. There were moments when the physical manifestations became too much, and I had to experience myself in other contexts.

For periods of time the heartbeat came from beyond myself.

I discovered that happiness is not derived from possibilities of happiness, but exists within the certainty of one moment of awareness. It is the self that becomes.

To believe then is too profound. According to my nature I developed a modest honesty which would allow acceptance of an idealism which ensured individual sanctity.

I no longer want the security of familiar objects, but allow the spontaneous desire of those ordinary objects to expand and contract throughout every moment, whether it be familiar or not.

Potency, not actuality, bears most witness to change. Nothing acts properly when pinned by fact. I must therefore approach in the same manner as I would to seek this pronunciation.

In going back over the passages, I will seek not the providence of origin. The latent temptation to do so then emerges as another desire.

If not the beginning, then for continuation.

It is only of the moment which I speak. These words only satisfy the desire to purge myself of these transient ideas. The act of dictation is continual, but selective, as is the self-conscious observer.

I am that which is consumed.

To explore this script, ignorant of hindrances such as impulse of form, we would take to task an analysis of the psychological causation of the author’s will. Immediate tendencies would appeal to an idiosyncratic prototype, most likely a camouflage of the author’s true existence. Would we not be better suited for whatever intrusion into our mind’s thought to know more of the author than of the work? I have been in that mind, jolted by the impulse of everything which is not of the moment. Would not we rather enjoy the voice of our surrender?

Whatever may be hidden in these things must not be instruments for our own contrived mysteries. If we were incapable of true understanding we would then not exist within ourselves but in the skin of strangers. We know nothing which is not known. The unattainable truth is the one by which we are made aware. It is only the conception of ends which defines progress.

There must always be the motivation of nothingness.

This dictation, however lacking in a perception of itself, is my only visible scope.

As I look into the emptiness I have yet to see myself as I am. The movements of these moments are never complete.

There is no separation of our understanding, no total ideal in which we gain ourselves.

Perception of such a totality would be a denial of the incomplete existence. It would confuse movement and destroy the moment in which we exist.

I long to accept things not as they appear to me, but as they appear only to themselves.

*  *  *

I sense no escape from my convictions. I am not unaware of the serenity of those forms which seem previous to my statement. A definite past enters through a definite lack of awareness. It is memory which recalls who we are now. It is memory which is designed to inspire awareness.

I recall the mental diffusion that accompanies a moment. Distant shores collapse into a single thread, suspended within the overflow of our existence. The deepness of the swell indicates the images I keep within. It is a recognition of a totality with presence. All of what I have been before returns, passes through, and moves beyond the moment. I have fallen before them, and these images become me.

There is a separation of all constructs from movement of the self. If we try to embrace the construction it is because we do not want to see. I am expanding within my existence, filling the spaces between fear and desire until nothing but the utterance of certainty is heard.

I am always tired. I am empty when I say this, as the awareness of writing is what makes me tired. It takes nothing to feel this way.

Here there is only misunderstanding. The language itself is death. If I could only embrace the memory of this passage, I would be filled with its potential.

Here I write from beneath a thousand thoughts, and all of the same thinking; that I am not who I am.

Each ridiculous day predicts the next in passages of sublime to comedy, comedy to sublime.

Each day is turgid with potential. There is still hope for me, but not here, in the too quick passage of things. What impresses me most is impermanence.

One moment cannot dictate the next to an immortal, though I feel I must know where I am going. It is the contradiction of my belief.

I must be made aware. I must create appearances independent of others, be dispassionate in the face of the impossibly passionate.

These convictions pass uneasily. Perhaps truth is in the duller moments? I am only as absolute as my self-awareness.

What in this mind can be called truth, with even the thought of it’s original name? The things we name do not sound of truth.

Thoughts are transparent, emotions all too vital and real. Where does truth beget itself? In these words, as thoughts made apparent? Is this not merely a shallow appearance? No, I feel the words cut through the body, as a fact of pain, ecstatic, totally self-indulgent.

With these thoughts I can falter beautifully. But thoughts are a poor translation of actuality. To effect, when I cannot endure or escape the physical tension my thoughts become transparent, my actions thick. I have been stagnant in the non-event, diseased with passions which confuse the functions of the mind.

There are no dull moments. They have melted across those depressions of a life not understood. This is a contrived version of reality, on which no system can exist.

I have always been alone.

I have witnessed the stillness of my mind.

I carefully navigate through familiar actions.

I am unable to reflect self in reference to self.

SM

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