There is an answer to all that happens in my life, to the total tally. It is a shame though, that answer is not for me to give, only live. Answers preceed questions, not in essence, but in their source. I have tilled the soil of my life so theourugly, not to plant, but to know the soil it seems. Sure i tried to plant a few seedlings, none took as they should have. I ripped out a few, crushed some, and starved the most of them. It seems cruel, but cruelty is done to others. I can not claim victim to myself. Why should we choose what to do with scars? They mark and define us, but why must we fashion a mark and a definition ourselves? Specially when it seems so clear, that the two won't ever be the same? There is no convergence, and even harmony is but a preference. To me, this reveals a an ignored exploit, a fragility to the deepest paragon of our existence. It is an invitation to weakness that could and would make continuity a burden. A limit to experience that is not anchored in death, but rather a story and assumptiom of the self. Guilt is welcome to be, but its sustainance is not. The thread you follow is not a subject to anything, nor a master to anything. To be and know of it, is a solitary thing, providing both horror and comfort. I have gone nowhere and walked an infinite moments to get there. I have met no one that did not need my acknowledgement to be anything to me. I have found nothing that would meet my eye, least anyone.
So in such a fashion of thought, i went to the pink lake that is a mirror. Its crystals that formed upon the touch of my skin, are now flawed in my eyes. Its a lake no more, that illusion of depth stripped away by knowledge. As such, my purpose for walking there changed when i came to the shore. I sought company now thay i have lost faith in such a thing. The contradiction became a welcome thing, added to the many knots in my silken web. I did not come to see what i might have missed, but rather for comfort that was so artifical that it became natural. In the hopeful deceit of its makers, a lie learns to serve as truth. For that is what i am looking for, mine is no more a search for ultimates and absolutes, not the elusive true thread in this weave, but rather fabric itself. Its nature of ignorance matters no longer to me, dears. I willingly plunge to this delusion, in truth of my own making. I seek no answers but rather completeness. The lake now serves a different reasoning for its use and existence, those two no longer indebted to each other.
And regardless of scale of all this, the implications are meant to be used. To be is to use and be used. Its seems action is all that manages to persist, the one thing that futility can not annihilate but only unravel. And that should be enough, at least for now. All things are like that, for now. Unraveling does not mean destruction. To truly unravel is to learn to weave, to dismantle is to learn to build. And so the flow of the reverse river changes, all that happened changes shape in what it meant. The name of the river stays, for now it proves true in a matter we would not consider. Its not named the reverse river for our benefit, for us to justify why we swim to where we do. And further yet, it lets us know that we are all floating even while we would claim to swim. It whispers not of the futility of agency but rather the fact that it is not necessary. That need is desire that we can't step out of, and desire is born of need we deny, denial that comes from hubris, hubries that flows out of our complexity that we would deny for another complexity.
And now this entire exercise comes to know of itself. This wall of words and all that stands behind their shadow, cramped yet content. Here i acknowledge to a place where i don't consider being followed, not just because of distance but my apparent disregard of leaving a trail. Here the solitude is meaningless yet apparent. I see now that this is where i would make my seat, not of power, but of rest. I now search for power not intent but by happenstance.
