Saturday, April 27, 2013

Neither Living Nor Dead

A Note On The Ruminations of An Impossible Nature

In the psychological labyrinth of E.A Poe's Tell Tale Heart, a secret as well as evidence is buried beneath the floor of the murderer's home, and yet, without the sense of sound, a persistent beating heart is heard by the protagonist. In Thomas Wolfe's novels, the persistence of memory as a perceived sanctuary of the heart in the iconography of the past percolates below the surface of the present.
The inescapable haunting of memory once a door has been closed, the setting long vanished in the play of life, has it's mirror image in experiential ghosts of an entanglement witnessed in the living.
The seeming captivity of the mind, relentless and persistent that lingers under the dust, beneath proverbial floorboards and behind supposedly locked doors.
 Just as the incessant ghosts who continually repeat their behavior absurdly, even if this obsessive behavior means breaching the solidity of walls, or doors in their passage, one notes that the walls of the past that divide the present are no barrier to retrocausal passage in our own memory as the living who witness these holographic genomes of a life that no longer exists, and so good reader, where does it end?
Between the memory of the living and the memory of the dead, the catacomb of a library whose breadth and width have no referential comparison as to it's enormity, exists in it's own state and station without any comparison we could label such a locationless location with.
Departure and arrival are terms which have no meaning.
In a mirrored existence, this is our habitation in the cranium as well and in a sense, we haunt the surface of this planet as equal spectres, perhaps never arriving, never departing except in the crudest senses of the senses themselves and how narrow they are...
The circular face of the clock on the wall is the crudest of measurements that mirrors the axis of the sphere we become enmeshed with that knows no visible state of transformation except as the ticking of a proverbial ruler that only inhabits the provinces of the mind held in abeyance to the senses.
And in the same manner, the crudest of references etched by the senses is the pain of birth as a transformative state of dreams melded into flesh as flesh is transformed back to it's original state as the velocity of such a cellular rate declines and as such.... nothing is lost, misplaced or hidden behind these proverbial sealed rooms, neither "a tell tale heart" nor the affliction of memory that knows nothing either blameworthy or praiseworthy in of itself except by what is survivable..... what is being diminished by transformative states that refuse to be frozen in a steady state except by the contingent, which the contingent is always transitory, yet memory is not, except for a misbegotten quest for innocence in the metaphor of a Garden that we imagine is owned through possession of a monarchical madness rather than by the possesed nature of yet another memory of  that which is not of our own somatic species.

Wheels within wheels, are spinning in thin air, dancing and alighting here and there. Perhaps in search of what that may be from a larger gasp of a indecisive dream, attempting to imagine, not what we may be but what that may be, using these millions to form an equal number of investigators probing a dream that refuses to sit still for a self portrait, relentless beyond that which we can imagine.

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