As the wind whispers through him and the sentiments of those around blend with it to echo and reverberate, he thinks he is alive. Only what is absent hints at the truth –evidence by its lack– a collapsed self forming a singularity horizoned by all events, distorting as they demise –processed not experienced, they are malnourished– as they fade away, leaving only the processioning vacuousness to bear silent witness and testimony to his existence. Not being, never quite Being, but always the potential thereof, a momentary embodied field of the feasible ... of a feasible, aware of its viable collapse, of all alternatives it could have been, it could still be, it might as well be, it perhaps ought to be, only that being too knows nought but frailty. Becomes then –he– no more than the voice of others, of narratives he has little to call own, of incoherent rubble held together by unisoned voluntary unhearing, ineluctable modality of the audible subverted, sheer will to comprehend overriding, a wounded matrix healed by its incompatibility – none can look at it, none can see it. Only ... only mirrored in the eyes of others that is all he sees, the chasm that is his Self, the rip in the place/memory continuum funnelling out all else that could have been and could –in time– be, feeding on them to sustain its seeming being, distorting as they demise, as they fade away. Vicious violence on the harmony of Being done in order 'to be', shattering the vessel to get at tiny seeds to nurture only but one. A broken joke, fragment at best, funny to none but the inane and the insane, and –though committed– perhaps he is neither. What waste, what unbearable waste; all the permutations they might have had to savour, to cherish, or even lament. All the feelings that may had become had their Self not, all the anguish and ecstasy. Yet, what lament has he, what ecstasy? Only the sentiments of those around blending with the wind as it whispers through him -agitating the processioning vacuousness- makes him think he is alive.
The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 15
And then -right then- he stopped. Seemed only appropriate under the circumstances as he watched the world become unmade, undone, unwoven, falling apart. The coveted Rapture no more than a rupture undoing the illusion of the Whole, of coherence - but none are saved. Turns out it -too- a Fall, an unholy transgression, the unmasking of the horror of Being, hyper-reality, meaning’s infinite regress, and only the polyphonic signs remain, mocking the manic efforts of those who seek singularity. No, but that’s not all, much else remains unsaid -necessarily so; to speak of the rupture is to denounce sanity, to join the Mad, to embrace the broken, the fragmented, the murder of Reality ... but too late, his hands are bloodied. First he fell from His grace, and now he falls from his own, lamenting what’s left ... what is left? Hands of a clock that won’t turn back, visions of what could have been, and a fenced heart – and all to find that nor is his mind free. Ought he will them turn back? Would that much difference make? The foolishness of the gamble whole heartedly conceded, but with so much already lost little option remains, cash out or go for broke; end result seems much the same but the latter offers adventure, revelation, and perhaps –perhaps- redemption, or a measure of salvation. A fence becomes a wall, a wall a tower, and all the less certain shall all become; with a mind so widely scattered all bets now a Hail Mary, but Mary answers few and only sheer blind indifference can heed that beseechment. Besiegement of the worst kind though it be –self inflicted and arbitrary- the ivory tower is not without its charms; not enough to conceal its prison nature to its singular occupant at all times perhaps, but enough to make the bundled etches of five seem decorative. 317. And that is all.
The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 14
Disconsciousness, those twilight moments when the ‘un’ flanks awareness in an act of defiance, destabilisation, fleeting usurpation – ‘you shall not silence me’; when clarity breaks ever so briefly into the Self’s dimly lit hall of mirrors -a dust spangled beam of sunlight through darkened clouds of familiarity- spot lighting a singular truth, ephemeral and magnificent, all too soon dissipating as a whisper in a cavernous hall. Not gone –never gone- but spread so thinly as to thereafter linger, unintelligible but present, incomprehensible but heard, and it is all the more tortuous; just beyond the finger tips, a beloved behind the final 3 wooded inches. But then –perhaps- a glimmer remains in the mind’s eye, that final reflection before only the dust remains, a whisper’s shadow: that ‘Happiness’ is a compounded effort, a lie to enact, tricking the mind –your mind- but no less real for it. Like grief, blind fortune moves us not - we seek a reason for what befalls us so that it matters, Life’s indifference a tonic and poison to all we feel, yelling in the corner of our mind ‘it happened, but not To You’ ... perhaps that is as it should be. Perhaps seek not happiness in the external, but only the sentiment dwelling within, that compounded lie – it is no more real, nor less. Outside your windowpane are only trees and grass, ‘Life’ is the mind’s creation –created by it, for it, forced upon it ... it matters not, it is neither more nor less true. Perhaps not, perhaps that is the lie, awareness’s vengeance, a blind undiscriminating retribution for the transgression it suffered, eradicating disconsciousness and its discontents, clarity be damned –the lie of many is truth, the truth of one heresy- and damn your insolence. But away now, so many more fleeting truths to stumble upon only to miss, and I am weary. Peace now, I am emptied.
The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 13
A major. As the resonance fades away the silence becoming is pregnant with eternity and everything it is set not to be; a world of missed connections and near hits, what could have beens and what will not be forgottens. Somewhere one had earnestly spoke, words fluttering from his mind with as much of their own volition as he had ever permitted; boulders of consciousness thrown into the very space between them – raw, unfiltered, only chiselled into form by the hands of intermitting silence. Stuttering, cutting, stammering, honing, blathering, sanding - the ideal form in the mind’s eye struggling to be manifest, to bring a moment of perfect clarity to bear; destined ever to fail. He speaks of regrets, willingness to compromise, changing, but he is no fool, knows his life’s too short to be two different people ... to be one coherent person. Yet his willingness is truth, to chip away an inflated ego, curb unyielding convictions, compromise, do what he must ... for her? them? him? Another faces a monster he so lovingly created; every strand of its consciousness laboured over, tomes distilled for its tapestry’s threads - first lovingly then obsessively, a blind wheel set in motion, and madness descends not as thunder but as nightfall. Wonders if his vision was ever clear, if he has truly stopped caring; as an act it was permissible, a front to wall off the winds of existential discontent, a layered lie to hint at choice, illude mastery. But to breach the lie and become the illusion, what then? And a moralist moralising, a standing livewire of the psyche’s dirty and depraved little secrets constructing a self and actioning a moral code – for only then is it made pertinent, questioning the value of an instinctive morality whose enforcing takes not an act of active will, a well narrated fiction. There too are the vacuous and the ignoble, the fierce and the fearful, all as real; and as the resonance fades away they are made anew in the moment’s image, their own creator: a god of hope, despair, or final chances. The world teetering on the edge of a note, a last breath exhaled and a first inhaled, both laced with tears ... parcelled ... a neat little bow, deep purple, matching the dress of the bride’s maid and the violets around the church; vows serenaded from miles and miles away by the next note too. C sharp minor.
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