The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 20

Then there are those rare moments, those magnificent, terrifying moments, when you truly glimpse someone; when the veils waver if but a little, the lies find themselves an inch too short here or there, veneer spread marginally too thin, and suddenly –inexplicably- you see them. Your lies of them too are suddenly insufficient; all that you would have had yourself believe –hold on to- are whispers amidst the perfect storm of abject realisation, birthed from a silent thought’s flutter in the furthest recess of your mind, aligned –to your despair- with all the wisps of memory you would have had erased, all the indefinable fragments –unspoken and unspeakable- of an intuition long since secluded, glances left unattended, gestures unexamined. The tempest irrevocable, your untruths are dust; and you realise –you are reminded- that they too are broken, they cannot fix you. And so the broken break in you –you broken wretch- what little is left to break. With inaudible sighs the cracks inch outwards a breath at a time, unseen but nothing if not felt, until they shatter, shards etching into your very sense of self with every tentative touch of examination; to understand it –this new fracture in you- you must pay, you must suffer. You know this, but as with teeth budding those thousands of years age -when last you felt whole- you cannot but caress them, suffer to feel them, pay to comprehend them. Each cut is sharp, deep, and they will not be dulled, will not be satiated – this is revenge for their internment, for shrouding them –hitherto frozen- in your lies. They are one yet more shattered illusion to be circumvented if you wish them to let your mind’s soul go unharmed, but you are stubborn and will not take the wiser man’s path. You let them cut knowing they will heal, but the scars are now many –too many- and you remain a fool. Why do you worship at these crystal idols? Why do you let yourself be lulled by their glisten? Why do you hold them where they can only fall, shatter; another illusion awaiting its revenge. And you will rage, o you wretch you will rage; you will hate and you will curse, and it will -for a time, yet once again- consume you. For a time it must, for how else do you break your broken idol’s hold? A blemished angel remains an angel, but a hated one –fallen from grace- might yet become a devil, and you cannot be called for its sins. Yet ...yet having wrestled control from the adversary, rage’s purpose dissipates. The struggle –it seems- was the function, the only true meaning; now what remains is nought but a hollow victory over an enemy never truly hated, an opposition never opposed; they merely stood some distance apart, holding firm in some existential ground no less honest. So that when the veils waver if but a little, the lies find themselves an inch too short here or there, suddenly –inexplicably- you see your Self.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 19

As first they crossed him in that beautiful place of desolation they believed him yet alive. He stirred to their approach, neglected body uncurling beneath a willow weeping, gaze passing to meet their approach, a smile gently crawling its way onto his lips. Greetings and peace they bestowed forth upon him, but no love for this fellow man could they muster in their hearts, an asking too far for a stranger in this profaned holy place, where ghosts too seek absolution. “And upon you, travellers” came simply his reply. They asked him if he knew where he was, where he had chosen to set down whatever burdens he carried, “here” he started “and what burdens would you believe I carry.” Many and more - they thought, why else would any man lay down his head in this place; and since he carried naught else -they saw, what but burdens could he have. “Have you no shelter old man? This is no place to dwell. We are not long to stay, but you are welcome to our company as we away.” “A dwelling? Aye young nephews, many and more. Wherever I went my head would rest and wherever next I go too; and though no man may, the soil remembers.” Patiently they said “we mean a home old man, a family perhaps, companions; somewhere you would have us return you to?” “Ah, trinkets and kinfolk you mean. Aye, even a wretch as I was born to kin and has his baubles; some of both already lost, the rest of both someday will. I held on so tightly once a time, thinking fear would keep them both. But all it did was curb the joy I felt to have them flutter through my life, and the joy those who could feel may have felt. But I am some margin less foolish now, and joy is easier to my heart. Here this willow and stream would be my trinkets and you my kin if you would have me, for as long as you’d wish to stay.” “Not just kin and hearth then nuncle; what of your memories? Some childhood place you would revisit, someone you’d wish to see once more?” “Of memories I have a hundredfold my life’s days, nephews, too many to dare test. Some are true I’m sure, many are false. Some are fragments held together by nothing more than the mind’s grace. Some are half truth, shaded and jaded by the life between them and now. Some are dreams seeped to waking, some are real recalled as dreams. Some missed what they ought have seen, and some mistook what they saw. Of my memories I remember most, but of my life little. You too may be a memory yet more, and I would remember you fondly as the men who sought to help this aged man though you may mock me once your backs are turned. But will I remember five of you or seven; will I see your faces in my mind; will the sky be clear and loving or overcast and cruel. Or may this will be what I doubt as a tale of another old man I overheard and let become my own. I know not. But I cherish them all, false and true, and could not bear to see them unmade - so I would not return to them but in my mind, where they are safest.” “Onwards –then- nuncle, to some place anew, where you might make memories yet more and share whatever you will with the living. Come along in our company, and depart where you might, away from this accursed place”. “But how would I walk your path young nephews and keep your pace? I know you must journey away yet more as once I did. Once too I would have abhorred the wraiths roaming this Here, once too I would have baulked at lingering in this Now. I wandered every place I could, seeking serenity - lest it had a home some hidden where. But only ghosts yet more found I, and young men who would not bear to stay - for the ghosts were theirs. Every step taken by them and I birthed ghosts more still, no matter the course we took; the death of all paths not chosen refusing to fade unmarked, etching their demise in whispers, regrets and doubts. You think me mad -I know, but mark me nephews lest one day this day serves you well, and may you then consider it payment for your kindness in stopping. We leave no trail unprofaned in our lives –with our lives; we leave no place unghostly. I may not remain here to my days' end – perhaps, but my departure will have marked my ghosts' return to me to haunt unto their eternal rest what memories I held of use to them, so that I may –too- have a peace of sorts; here in some future now, under my willow.” “As you wish” said the most righteous and forthright amongst the band “Let him be, brothers. He is already dead”.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 18

When He arrives, he will find him waiting with a smile. Of greeting, gratitude, relief, remorse, embarrassment, appeasement, and many thousand other conflicting intertwining roots dug deep in the dirt, rocks and boulders of this particular experiential plot; each touching at its deepest a singular tale, each in turn a chimera of fact and fantasy, a mind furiously filling in gaps and hailing Marys when needs arise. To think, this laughable shamble of shreds shielding Ego -this porous soil- holds within its folds all these and more, clamouring then to show their fruits upon weary lips, coaxing themselves back to consciousness away from their darkened and unattended cage, seeking –one last time- to be made alive, or minimally remind any who cares they were once lived. But none will care –and nor ought they; so He might take pity on this lingering layered smile and sit a while, give it time to unfold itself, have it tell its tales, its half truths and lies. Where would it begin? Perhaps it would start with unfulfilled passions, confessions made too late and distant to matter; it would speak then of her having ever stood an hour away, at the other end of the world; reachable and unattainable, sought and avoided. It would mock all contrivances, declaring how dutifully was fought the fray to stay altogether away rather than get drawn into a fatuous platonic play; how her contentment did nothing to ease the frustration, how the memories only added to the alienation. But even at this, when least compromising, when least willing to delve in grey, she was not denied, could not be denied; she was a weakness unconquered, an urge never subdued. For her, time was inconsequential; the passage of months and years did nothing to her status in this plot. Her spot always remained, an invisible corner refusing to dissipate –‘that wasn’t there again today, but wouldn’t wouldn’t go away’. Yet the end was never in doubt, a time -a single and singular time- was always to be the last; the last she was met, the last her voice was heard, the last she wrote. The sorrow was in the ever-waiting, knowing that, not knowing when; each time for it tormented and savoured all the more, cherished and suffered. A single time would be the last, but only becoming thus when that very smile unfolding ends the play. Perhaps this would be the smile’s first tale, the first memory it completes, the first story it ends; might its candour keep its audience, conjuring its own Shahryar and have him share in tales yet more? Because when He arrives a smile will be waiting, awaiting an audience so that it may complete its memories, and its memories are many more still.

The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 17

Walk with me a while down this road and don’t look back. I promise you may return once our stroll is done, though I can’t promise you’ll want to. It’s a barren road, with little demarcation; its purpose is not to show you new things –nor things anew, but simply to put distance between you and all the baubles held invaluable, all the spectres you hold true; to shield your eyes so you might see, to cover your ears so you might hear. Breathe now, and cast aside all that you know –intrinsically know- is superfluous; keep only with you what is vital, essential, of the essence, the essence. Throw away all the baseless beliefs, feelings, ideas and identities; all the incidental, accidental ties, bonds and memories; all the baggage you were made to carry by the world and told they were ‘You’ –don’t worry, you can re-collect them upon your return should you choose to return. You know what they are, you’ve always suspected them; if you don’t – if you haven’t- turn around now, perhaps this road is not for you. Perhaps you are too sane, too clear minded. To be sure, this road’s side is littered with the mind remains of the insane and the clouded; so who is it that ought turn back? Too late for me I think, I have sought to build my home at the end of this road. If you are with me still, walking beside me still, you ought now have held on to the essence of all experience, you ought to be naked, ought only have your body, and an awareness of world synthesis through it. All else, all you have shed, is what could have been else wise - the permutations that were, the fractures in time expanding, the cascading cracks in the composition of all that could have been; perfectly logical, feasibly traceable, and entirely meaningless. You ought only have your body, and a sense of world synthesis through it. Be still there for a moment. You are rid of all the categories ‘You’ are said to be. You are free of ties and bonds. You are neurons and synapses, chemistry and biology; you are the experiencer and the arbiter, the process and the product. You are the thing through which reality is made, Actuality is hidden, meaning becomes. You are a livewire of Life, a conduit, but you are no longer a vessel; Life passes through but does not sediment, emotions and sentiments float by, but they are un-anchored. ‘You’ dies with every completed moment, at the synaptic event horizon of your Being. Be still for a moment and tell me –I implore you- what you’ve come to see; the vapid emptiness of it all, or the overbearing fullness? The static silence or fearsome cacophony? Did you find your unconditional and unconditioned sense of self, or hopelessly lose all traces of it? Do you mean to hold on to this moment for as long as your mind would let you, or burn away the faintest traces of its memory? Tell me, are you beside me still?