Genesis

"The problem - the one and only problem ever possible - is that there is -", said the old man, stopping dead. The noise behind his voice also stopped, like a tape recording coming to it's end. I looked up and the man's eyes were devoid of life, serving as mirrors; that's when I became aware of my body, realized I'm on my back, sat up and unexpectedly bumped into a membrane, ripping the paper the man was printed on. "Did I kill him?", I first thought, but quickly felt trapped in a joke, ashamed, looking around; God forbid I took the idea of killing symbolically serious. The atmosphere I got into felt humid and dense, and the paper dissolved into it, erasing any trace of the happening. I'm just sure that what I saw and heard was real, if only I can distort that term to embrace that event... Just a little tweak will do. I always thought I was good at reading the silences, but this time I was so trapped into the discussion that my expectation for the end of the sentence became me. Was the sudden silence really the end? Was the dead stop intentional, giving the listener an open opportunity to fill in? Did I just misunderstood a full sentence for one that felt unfinished? I tried to flow, but simple mistakes end up putting a tag on me forcibly. Again having to clean up the game, seems like the user failed.

 

"The problem - the one and only problem ever possible - is that there is... ". When I felt the silence longer than the previous ones, I looked up, and the old man was frozen, looking straight into the layer that most people think is the present but is just their skin. Did he say the rest? Was I distracted by either internal or external noise? Every second from that moment, the memory loses sharpness and is polluted with flashes of cerebral activity, and emotional debris that consumes the details. The body needs rest by now, but the holding of the event becomes an obsession. "Maybe I missed the end", I cry inside. Well, I don't seem to have a pause to think, I can only walk around the puzzle, observing from every angle. From there, the man looks like an abstract figure, like a bad 3D render, glitched to every side, that vaguely looks like a man only from the first angle; needless to say, the notion of what happened is by now well a simple fantasy that could never again be expressed, even artistically. I don't think I have the actual energy to restart.

The writer kept losing her mind over punctuation, something felt off every time she ran the program.

"I better get it right soon, this technology will expire any time".

Only one can fool oneself.

I find myself on the edge of a cliff again, because there's where I use to actually find myself. I can't tell if it's a different cliff or it has always been the same, or if any of what I said makes any sense. I guess what I sense as a cliff is a rough definition of a position. I don't sense it as solid, but is a little less ethereal than a thought; I feel a resistance or even impossibility to apply reverse, and it certainly has some height in contrast with the empty space in front of me. That's it, there's an emptiness I bumped into (and it's not calling me!). It's funny how I don't call it a dead end, even if right now feels like there's a nothing to not-fill that declares an expectation not met. One would think I was carelessly walking on a path I thought right and then, if this happened, it could well be a dead end. Of course it's not an end, there's no such thing; and it's more alive than me.

I here find myself being the agent, I can't shake that role off; bumping into the cliff is exactly to define me, not really it, and there's no escape from that. How insane is to exist in this solid form where the molecules resist the energy that travels around... I can't get exactly where or why I'm so sensitive to the pain of definition, or if whoever I am is dependant on these encounters to feel alive, even as conscious as I am that where I'm standing is not even real. REAL... Get out!

I just can't.

I still harm my body when a person or situation defines me and when there's a break in my brain because of a contradiction (which also triggers psychosis). Every action one makes is seen within the context of the other, and I can't stand that kind of attribution anymore. I have lived my whole life understanding and loving my lack of solid identity, I had my times of struggling to define something in me to think in a certain way or just function at all, also went through the realization of not having to try anything but just live, and understood the discursive, historical, biological, psychological, spiritual and all kinds of boundaries that shape the self; I have worked my transparency to communicate all of it, and still there's people that will keep defining me, no matter how toxic they know that is for me.

I was diagnosed with BPD and schizoafffective disorder, then developed and got the diagnosis of schizoid personality disorder, and I just took it like I developed the latter out of fear, laziness, comfort or something that took me far from a better living, but now I realize I protected myself from an identity given by others, or given by the sole interaction with them. They're not mirrors, they're bouncy walls and the feedback is too noisy.

I understand their position, but it seems like I don't integrate that understanding to live better near them, and that makes me feel disappointed both of them and myself for not reaching that mode of mere conduit, which is for me the purest way of and only value on helping others. I'm failing to teach something through me, and that sole fact is defining me...

And my body is the only thing about my being that I can actually destroy... More than it giving me a sense of agency or control, I really think it is about "avoiding" the curse of definition via relations. Can't keep dialectics up when the position of others kill the possibility, so being forced into a position kills me slowly.

 

(I'm working hard on that behaviour and overall dominating my vulnerabilities, this is just a necessary verbal exploration).

Almost.

I'm crawling on this realm, trying to not lose the entire sense of language, as I can't not look every tiny part of entropy unfolding, and the declaring of concepts renders futile, or worse. When I feel like I have a lot to say, I don't like it in it's entirety because when it reaches another brain it will become another bifurcation of chaos, not reconcile anything, no matter how pure and worked my thoughts are. When I feel like I nail the feeling, I don't feel like I want to talk at all. So is that impossibility a natural feature, or a hopeless point in the eternal damnation of humanity? Even: Are both statements true? Being the agent that separated them is kind of painful.

- 

What I'm trying to communicate these days is that the problem these times relies on a profoundly damaged sense of self. Fed by a tumultuous history of relations (with others, with land, with concepts), the self is deeply confused and can't get out of it's invisible cage. Emotions, which were originally developed to guarantee survival, arouse from the menace of it's "integrity". Whether to call the menace real or fake has no space into the discussion; not even as denied, but it has no sense when the self is set at the point where the pulls and pushes start and end, where the last 20 words lose any meaningful meaning... That blind spot that became "me" and "us", that separation and interdepence, that collapse into itself. "What are the structures that hold that definition floating around in search of identification?" should be the question every time it reappears. Is it the only way to be alive?

🦎

Love note.

"On my way to God don't know or even care"... I found a spark, a final spark perhaps, from you. It wasn't a sign of a vivid you, although it showed something very deep in you behind the deathness of the 99/100 more superficial levels of you; maybe neither it was a sign of what caricaturesquely is taught about what love is... It even was like a plead for help, a very shy but sincere, silent cry for help, like a last breath, and the last breath is only given when you trust the soul in front of you. That's the sole reason why I chose you even if it might not be the most convenient thing, whatever that means. I have an infinite amount of lives, and I traded all of them for this one, whatever it asks from me. Your head might be distorted now, but your heart is full open, so thanks for that tunnel that connects me with the all (and the nothing) back to myself!

 I write this before I lose the sense of language.

 

In vulgar language.

"At" "the" "end", "everybody" "were" "angels".