How can I justify my being?

Well, I’ve figured that I’m here and might as well ask why. No, not electronically, even though I am swish swishing and click clicking, but physically, flesh fleshing and blood blooding. I’m here, as you might have ingeniously observed, not out of choice or desire but out of sheer necessity.

That’s silly to claim, is it not? I’d like to think I’m necessary for something, but for what? Is it necessary for me to think I’m necessary for the sake of preserving my sanity? But is my sanity a necessity? For what? For whom? For how long? For material or immaterial existence? Can a response to one contradict a response to the other? One thing seems certain, one is seemingly necessary for the other, but, perhaps, not the other for the one.

Perhaps I should work backward and ask what is necessary? And then to ask how could I become necessary? For, as it stands, it’s a silly declaration. However, it must mean something, mustn't it?.

This should create considerable anxiety for you as well, perhaps hives, dark spots, sleepless nights, illiteracy as to convince yourself you have not read this, because I’m unsure of why you are here and whether you are necessary.

In no time

Then it was over. No more hushes and shushes, just notes, whether high-pitched or low-pitched. No more ambiguity. We could not measure it, not by time, location, or tense. It was gone, and its origins yet unknown. You can see the earth bend itself in such an awkward position as to reverse the order of things, just to take a peek at this new phenomenon. Life came, when silence disappeared. It was different, you could say interesting.

naming those edges

you make compelling sounds when you stutter your name, building soft layers around those letters, except the O. the O in the sky and the O of the wheel barrow. I imagine your spelling always meticulous, more syllables than I can handle. but a bit sharp on the edges, those suicidal edges. repetition drives us to edges.

odd moments

It's odd when you have those odd days, those odd moments, those odd feelings, those odd pauses. when you have slept on your arm for so long that it's barely there. when silence rips apart the charcoal sky. when handkerchiefs cover eyes. when curses turn to verses. when hallucinations turn vicious.

this is not bravery.

all i want is to maintain a good heart, even in my odd moments.

pre-reason

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.

rules

you announce yourself eloquently with assurance and ease. a permanent smile, never awkward. phrase complete with unbroken, untouched, unblemished semiotics. with your perfection you can love and speak of souls.
but you can’t claim all languages are the same when you’re still trying to figure one out. note how your tongue wraps itself around syllables as you glide into another language; your skin speaks new phrases, such sweet sweet broken phrases. only with imperfection can you speak to souls.