Only more recently did I understand that in writing for myself I served others and that, in not writing for myself, I could not serve others (Barker 1997, p.76).
Behold the light of despair (Kane 2010, p. 228).
Leaves wither and crack in a vast and broken place. Collectedly swept together but never unified. As they swirl around one another, they reform and change through the eyes of omniscience. The leaves are the actors on the stage. Their fullness of being can mean only that they will one day vanish. Unseen. For now, there is movement.
Movement in silence. Witnessed by some who see and speak. By some who see but do not speak. Others speak and do not see. Others neither see nor speak. A muted stage. There is unity only in what’s beyond the horizon. Eyes cannot see that far. Leaves cannot fathom what lies beyond the winds that manipulate them.
The silence resets through each moment of being. The earth regenerates through the motions of mind. The path unfolds with abstract voices, words that are bound by history and tied up in antiquity.
Voices mock the thunder
Absence screams the presence of a thousand dying souls. Collected on a page in an attempt to unify being. To create a self through fragmented language. The stark winter of my week when I find myself alone. Lost in words that create being. That forge meaning from the otherwise passing flux of time and phenomena.
Words rise up through suicidal despair, spelling out the death of me.
The cat meows and scratches at the door. The air glides outside my window. Hidden in here all night to sleep I await the waking terror of morning. Pay homage to this dying art. This life of aesthetic qualities.
To spell out the death of me. These words to which life clings. Up with the dawn and at my desk as the rest of the house sleeps. My phone does not vibrate with a barrage of messages. There is a creative silence. A place where I can be symbolically resurrected. Only to be deconstructed by somebody else. There is no containing the life on the page. Pages feed words to each other.
Abstract spatiality
There is hope in fluidity. In the flow of life that pours through these words. Invisible waves connect everything together in the rise and fall of incommunicable emotion.
The leaves blow by the window. The scratching at the door has ceased. There is no separation between me and the opening sky.
A series of statements set in stone is to produce a doctrine. Thought does not work that way. Language does not work that way. Time does not work that way. Words engraved on gravestones erode with time as evidence of past thought vanishes from the world. The mourning leaves dissolve in the rain. There can be no finality of meaning.
Love breathes new life into the meaning of words. A love for life and poetry. To live life well is to create art. The works will produce themselves. No self from which to write. A shifting point of view. Not locked in a single paradigm. The space of the page is not a cage.
The possibility of escape. Of going beyond. To break free from these dusty theories and philosophical debates.
Poetic language draws beauty out of silence. Illuminates a hope that’s deep underwater. Forgotten so long it barely exists. Water pours over the clocks of the world as familiar notions of time are wiped out. Wiped clean. Until the past is little more than a cured disease. A stifled cave, washed and crumbled, exposed to the sky.
The leaves break down into soil as the cyclic nature of the world continues. Fragmented sentences blow through the mind of a figure that passes. The stranger on the street. The writer at home. Bodies of text create the bodies of being. Assertions form temporary identity.
When the leaves turn, the entire world has rotated. Nature grows over the rigid design, outstripping the constraints of reason. The urban sprawl exists to remind us of our self-oppression. I walk alongside the crumbled ruins, chasing a perpetual horizon.
Endless hunger winds along these paths. Autumn has scattered its character on the ground. It has shed its illustrious beauty in favour of a stark winter. Hours building, soon to be forgotten. Swept again and again. Raked into dust.
Another walk in the forest to nowhere. Another road. Another tree. It’s all the same but different.
The conversation burned with the cinders.
I once wanted this beauty to cease. To pack it away into a box and bury it. (Under a dark spell.) I’m aware of the deficiencies. (The ghost of a word.)
The wall reveals nothing but a wasted life. To live is to never be free of the puzzle.
Can anyone ever put these fragments together or will they remain spinning forever through eternity? The other side of the mind turns with the world. Its tide fluctuates between clarity and insanity.
Instability of mind
Language is a dance of love. Cataclysmic splinter of the mind. A mark left by death, there on my skin. I’ll say no more about it. Exhausted, isolated, no point to anything. I do not want to be here.
Hope is found in the deepest despair. Carved out of grief. A pattern of existence so desperate now to break.
Something must break. The limitations that I draw for myself. Opening to life at the dissipation of winter. Toward the end. Toward the dark. The day and the night coexist in a dreamt up world. A world of boundless imagination. It is love that blows the leaves through the air. The leaves form letters that spell out truths.
To dream of the world and never wake up. The dream is the world. The world is the dream. To dream of the world at this barren table. To die is to wake from the dream. To change.
The veil of reality is lifted.
References:
Barker, H 1997, Arguments for a Theatre, 3rd edn, Manchester University Press, Manchester.
Kane, S 2010, Sarah Kane Complete Plays, Bloomsbury Publishing PLC, London.