On reality -
reality is the thing that we fix for ourselves, and I, I am stuck, hardened in this shape that is...that might be me, that is part of me, insofar as I breathe what life I can into it. I have, I realize, spent so much time trying to harden this shape, this life that I am in and was given to play with, and so much time trying to stretch loosely without within this shape I am hardening. THere is this desperate yearning, this cry from a distance within me, the faintest whisper at the beginning from far off of disembodiment in the desert, wandering lost. There was this cry that as I came closer in the struggle to stretch within this box I am making that began to sound like *dreams* and *fiction* and *makebelieve* and *what if* until just now, when it catches up to me and the voice is me, full crushing weight, lamenting not "reality" not the hard shapes that we make, but the slow extinction of all other possibility of shape, all other dreams I might have that there can always be something else... That fiction is necessary, that stories and dreams and the wild searching and descent into gluttones gorging of possibility is the missing water in the desert. I want fiction. I want to dream, and imagine. I want to believe - not in dragons, but that there might be dragons, that I can create them if I want to, that I can make another hardened place within and without me that nurtures and sustains them. And the truth that descends upon me is that I created every bit, all that I can see and not see, that is true and not in this first hard shape, that I am asphyxiating in, and that I can break it, and make another, harder in different places, that I can make an infinite soft polygon of me, porous and catalystic and that, in the last gasps for air in the darkening cave I have made of me, I am thinking that I might rather break a thousand times, dying trying, than asphyxiate myself on the loss of imagination and belief. If it were free, free of effort to create the consequences of a choice, then sign me up! I am there baby! but it is not, it cannot be, it has no value, no meaning, no existence because of its own inherent definitions, if I do not create the actions to recieve the consequences. And so, I am afraid. Afraid of myself, of my children, my progeny, my little demons I have made that build this ever hardening shell for me while that voice has retreated further and further in confusion and fear, weakening in the desert I am making, that once I have, I do not want.
Reality! How I hate that word, that overused, inaccurate, too definable and indefinable word that we use too much, fight too much, accept too much, that has a life of its own, that we have gorged until it has become a monster that runs maniacally rampant around us, that has its own life now, a pulsing concept separated from its source, that which we have created. For truly, its own self, it's past infant state that still exists but it has separated and dualized is self from is the simply the indidividual and sum total of the hard shapes that we create.
Reality! How I hate that word, that overused, inaccurate, too definable and indefinable word that we use too much, fight too much, accept too much, that has a life of its own, that we have gorged until it has become a monster that runs maniacally rampant around us, that has its own life now, a pulsing concept separated from its source, that which we have created. For truly, its own self, it's past infant state that still exists but it has separated and dualized is self from is the simply the indidividual and sum total of the hard shapes that we create.