I’m guilty due to my senses, because wherever I go, they follow. even during my moments of immobility they sit silently and contemplate existence, never fearing epistemological breakdowns. I’m guilty because war turns our gentle, timid nature into a gruesome one, or multiple grotesques. or is this landscape fabricated, and there has always been war and no gentleness?
to accept guilt is to create and reside in a nightmare, and when nightmares become reality they never truly exist as real,nor do we for that matter. there’s always an air of surrealism to nightmares —- they are anti-logic, anti-art, anti-sense. nightmares are pre-reason, perhaps.