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?
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