and so it was,
poetry: a deliberate madness
serene, thoughtful, full of strange distances
hanging names on the limbs of details
giving sound a place to rest
all things visited from sidelong silences
things: worshipped and often obscuring
the sudden flight of city birds
exactly because my sight was bolted
to that eerie spasm of the sky
the spaces neglected for the general purpose
of a somnolent rain
I speak: world
in order to feel: existence
the challenge of light and above all ideas
pulverized movement near disfigured events
dates as calmly as pulsations
inventing, attempting, redefining
something that enters the invaded dream
the inundated reality that spears me.
Existence was always for me a dark place. It was not necessarily depressing or ominous; it was dark because it lacked explanation and purpose. But somehow, after years of purposelessness, I have begun to love life’s obscurity.
There’s something enchanting about the enigmatic — anything that conceals something deeper or unknown is generally very intriguing, like a mask or a symbol. Analysis is the ability to dive below the surface of a thing in order to grasp its inner structure. The purpose of writing is vague and uncertain. Entertainment? Transmission of knowledge? Spontaneous activity? All three are plausible but foremost, for me, writing has a symbolic function. It is the disguised voice of the raving lunatic we all carry inside. Most struggles in life are born from the dissension between our waking consciousness and the nocturnal beast that dwells in the swampy pit of our unconscious. If that treacherous monster had a voice, what would it say? It would probably roar…
If only we had the strength and perseverance to record every fleeting detail. All those frustrated desires, every old man that crossed our path, every wind that lifted a billow of dust before our eyes. What would we discover then? Do we grasp ourselves better in representations; is the mirror’s image our final wisdom?
Will the beast be tamed when he sees his own deformity?