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.
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