there is a voice in the weariness and despair. it calls you to return, and to die (both are the same thing). you can't resurrect yourself without surrendering completely and senselessly first. the phoenix must be immolated without a trace before its ashes can remember how to return to life...
the world is not only productive and positivistic, much as we would like it to be. in fact, in its truest sense, the world and the real is precisely what resists us, resists all of our efforts at sequestration, at control ( i believe that one of the best definitions of "the real" is found in its resistance)... to surrender, on the one hand, can appear to be the gesture of abdication and failure (which it often is), but it can also be the most beautiful and effective thing in the world... to spread oneself upon the winds of fate.
yes, i believe in fate. perhaps it's a cop-out. i like to think of it more as a survival mechanism. if i didn't believe in fate, then i would never give myself over to the chance that perhaps the world is larger than i am, and works by rules and whims that have little to do with what i would will. if i didn't believe in fate, then i couldn't accept god, or love, or any of the greater swells and ebbs of the universe...
right now, despite my best efforts to make my life a "productive force," i keep returning to this truth of truths, the lie within all truths, that there is nothing underlying this edifice we have built, and we are all subject to the tides and the storms. i cannot concentrate, there is no will left to resist the wind of the world. i am a useless thing, a scarecrow blown away, fragmenting and tossed... beautifully mad and dizzy upon dreams that have nowhere to "go to," dreams that are merely the surging blindly, attempted resolutions of unresolvable conflicts...
***
distract. attention slack.
the world hangs loose
in an empty noose.
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