I Express Myself Through Writing
[b]Hmmm..[/b]
There’s often this ecstatic or panic-induced need to grasp at things, for movement to occur and to have a purpose.
Even this, cannot escape that definition or intention.
In a very tangible way, we are walled within that structure; where things do not only convey meanings, but those meanings connect to one another.. making up a hive of cognitive entries. Our movement is restricted and fated, at times we assume, to only traverse the limits of that intricate hive.. for the intricacy of such a well-defined space is already overwhelming on its own, that we dread to imagine what it must be like to move outside of it.
Every single step is like a calculated breath, while unintentional and perhaps directionless as it may seem, it still follows a certain agreed-upon realm of what is known, naturally, for safety and predictability reasons alike.
We are surrounded by noise because silence can be a sign of wakefulness, and wakefulness as such cannot exist in a realm where everything has an already assigned meaning.. in a very real sense, it threatens the deconstruction of the hive. But it never occurs to us whether we exist in the hive, or somewhere behind it. For if it was the former, that means that we are defined by its confines, climate and topography. We are a part of it as much as it is a part of us. Existing behind it, however, would perhaps mean that we are perceived through it.. and perceive the outer world lying outside of it through the many filters of meaning it’s covered in.
If we do indeed reside behind the hive, does that mean that we can be diminished to a minuscule state of being, to the point of no-existence? Or that we can be expanded to a gigantic state of being, to the point of no-definition?
Either way, it’s a way of being something else, other than our “normal” size. What we compensate for in size, we lack in authenticity. And then it’s time for another cup of noise.
Maybe it’s all bullshit, and maybe there’s still hope for the bee that no longer produces honey or finds the flowers’ nectar particularly appealing anymore. There’s an empty space around us when we long for something known, there’s a bigger space when we long for the unknown.. we can go here, or we can go there, but that empty space is never wide enough to cover all that we can see and know. For even emptiness, inevitably, and we assume necessarily turns into a detailed blueprint.. however messy it is.
We do not devour anything as gluttonously as we do meaning, clarity and limits. And in a way, moving beyond what is limited, also leads into other limits.. for the purpose is often to test how far we can go… within the landscape of the same hive.
Perhaps in another parallel universe of possibility, we lack names and features. We walk around like apparitions, or something that doesn’t resemble anything else you’ve ever seen, except one another. You’d make that connection, but then not feel the need to go any further with it mentally. It is a mere note of observation. When we speak, neither ecstasy nor panic is expressed through our words. Would those words contain any meaning whatsoever? Who knows. We don’t have a need to escape; we’re not free.. neither are we imprisoned; opposites are not trampling around us in their appetizing form waiting for us to gnaw at them with our starving minds. We are… and then we are again. When we breathe, we feel it. When we walk, the air stretches its arms in seeming oxygenated endlessness.
But we are weighed down with the need to stay where we are and guard the safety of the familiar, however damaging it is. Provided every day with what we know, lurking from shadows that caress our wounds, welcoming the lights that accentuate our triumphs against the dark tunnels of our hives.. shrinking down the emptiness around us, until we render our necks smothered so tightly, short of a natural homicide.
There’s often this ecstatic or panic-induced need to grasp at things, for movement to occur and to have a purpose.
Even this, cannot escape that definition or intention.
In a very tangible way, we are walled within that structure; where things do not only convey meanings, but those meanings connect to one another.. making up a hive of cognitive entries. Our movement is restricted and fated, at times we assume, to only traverse the limits of that intricate hive.. for the intricacy of such a well-defined space is already overwhelming on its own, that we dread to imagine what it must be like to move outside of it.
Every single step is like a calculated breath, while unintentional and perhaps directionless as it may seem, it still follows a certain agreed-upon realm of what is known, naturally, for safety and predictability reasons alike.
We are surrounded by noise because silence can be a sign of wakefulness, and wakefulness as such cannot exist in a realm where everything has an already assigned meaning.. in a very real sense, it threatens the deconstruction of the hive. But it never occurs to us whether we exist in the hive, or somewhere behind it. For if it was the former, that means that we are defined by its confines, climate and topography. We are a part of it as much as it is a part of us. Existing behind it, however, would perhaps mean that we are perceived through it.. and perceive the outer world lying outside of it through the many filters of meaning it’s covered in.
If we do indeed reside behind the hive, does that mean that we can be diminished to a minuscule state of being, to the point of no-existence? Or that we can be expanded to a gigantic state of being, to the point of no-definition?
Either way, it’s a way of being something else, other than our “normal” size. What we compensate for in size, we lack in authenticity. And then it’s time for another cup of noise.
Maybe it’s all bullshit, and maybe there’s still hope for the bee that no longer produces honey or finds the flowers’ nectar particularly appealing anymore. There’s an empty space around us when we long for something known, there’s a bigger space when we long for the unknown.. we can go here, or we can go there, but that empty space is never wide enough to cover all that we can see and know. For even emptiness, inevitably, and we assume necessarily turns into a detailed blueprint.. however messy it is.
We do not devour anything as gluttonously as we do meaning, clarity and limits. And in a way, moving beyond what is limited, also leads into other limits.. for the purpose is often to test how far we can go… within the landscape of the same hive.
Perhaps in another parallel universe of possibility, we lack names and features. We walk around like apparitions, or something that doesn’t resemble anything else you’ve ever seen, except one another. You’d make that connection, but then not feel the need to go any further with it mentally. It is a mere note of observation. When we speak, neither ecstasy nor panic is expressed through our words. Would those words contain any meaning whatsoever? Who knows. We don’t have a need to escape; we’re not free.. neither are we imprisoned; opposites are not trampling around us in their appetizing form waiting for us to gnaw at them with our starving minds. We are… and then we are again. When we breathe, we feel it. When we walk, the air stretches its arms in seeming oxygenated endlessness.
But we are weighed down with the need to stay where we are and guard the safety of the familiar, however damaging it is. Provided every day with what we know, lurking from shadows that caress our wounds, welcoming the lights that accentuate our triumphs against the dark tunnels of our hives.. shrinking down the emptiness around us, until we render our necks smothered so tightly, short of a natural homicide.
