to forget

it is not so much my inability to write but the lack of courage for truth. Of life lived less than what can be an image to remember. To write is to assert, to acknowledge an act or thought as a personal truth that existed. To forget, or to recreate a forgotten past is the desperation of a seemingly (and truly) insipid life, to erase the moments that are cliche; means to let go of your being. To only remember what has not been written allows for the construction of the past in the mind of today, offering an escape from the paradoxes, from the conflicts between me before and the me tommorow.

A wish to live not in moments but in life, demands for the memories of another, to follow them unto oblivion. To read of them, into them and from them. But to expect another to flow into you, to save my 'I' from the isolation inherent in being human is stupid, to think of them to feed you with your life an absurdity. Then maybe only can what is sometimes called love by people a tracedent or a momentary ilusion into the state of knowing another, and thus instantiating the self; as a legacy and with a future.

please

dust gives way to truth. truth not universal maybe. but truth percived. truth lived. truth remembered.

maybe the hope is to transfer hopes lost, and yearnings into that head. that strange head with a billion secrets. The goal but, can never be reached, even for its triviality, it is a prodox in itself. only prayer and hope can maybe help.

what do you do when the thoughts you have impugn the privacy,life of your only confidant?

Trash Bin for my Mind

we, a generation of close-ups and silhouettes

frame by frame

help me learn to write

it is not so much that i want to write for the outside to have access to my ideas, thoughts and opinions. In the structure of being, memory and self i have created for me, the self is connected completely and intricately to conversations; those that make use of speech, text and the mute internal musings. Thought being transient fade into oblivion as soon as they pass me, coming again sometime, if at all. With these ephemral conversationsthe self dissolves, loosing itself to the mysteries of memory. To be alive and 'me' only for this moment is not to be human, is to be denied choice and chance. It kills any hopes of the future, and leaves no space in time for a history of me.

In the struggle to remember, to catalouge convesations and thus preserve a link to me, i recede from the real. The present, my moment of existence, seems to me, lost in the haze of a 'battle for my past'. Loosing everything slowly, material and spiritual, and the little i understand, i live, frame by frame, hoping to create 'my life' in the analysis of the recordings of others. Frame by frame i am obliterated by the weight of the others, who grow step by step, understanding and doing.

The only hope is to proclaim of my existence to a future who will be me, to write. Save the moment, the moment itself and not the reflection of it in the eyes of the world around. In the gaze of truth that unifies the private with the public, the self is lost; being me is hidden under the need to imitate the image of me. And the words then have to flow not at the speed of thought, as that will cheat the writing of the animation of being. The tension between the words and thought, the space in time between the two liable for the beauty in the text. The struggle of words to engage completely the flow of thought or vice versa captures existence as it is, with its struggle and dialectic, the confusion, chance and plurality is what defines being. The motifs underlayed in the composition of existence emerge in this strife, generating an history, a legacy for the future that hopefully will be me.

note for me

“I may be wrong, but I’m never in doubt.” - McLuhan