Corrupted

A few years ago I wrote an entry about rejecting rationality.

The motivation was how thoughts dressed as “reasonable” are often deadening, and it’s not as though I’m denying reality outright. Or at least what reality seems to present.

Still, “Rationality” then drapes upon our existence and conversation, where one’s imagination and even zest for life files in line to the next science experiment.

One must acknowledge the limits of reason — in other words, since we process the world through the filter of sense and mind, the necessary unknown waiting will not fit into our schematic. It doesn’t fit until it does, the same as spooky action from a distance, or how there’s infinite emptiness in the deepest of atoms.

This isn’t returning to blood sacrifice of course. It’s just the ability to entertain anything is possible, the same as electricity back in the 1850s; magic now turned into dependency.

I’d rather live in a world with magic waiting, that’s all. My thoughts mirror the same as a General lately, and though seemingly necessary, it also renders everything so opaque and dead. It’s ridiculous.

The reason I bring up this entry, this rebellion of “rationality”, is because writing corrupts such a mission. Now a devotion to the Rationality Goddess looking lovingly while I twindle my veins and fit my entire essence of existence into print.

I’ve been on a few outings recently, but got nothing to say. My face stays flat, and while engaged, something is terribly missing. It seems I have shaped myself small, hoping to exist in a void plane that writing entails.

However much feeling I could put into each word, it’s lost in the final draft. And it’s a shame that’s all I can do, where the best way I’ve found thus far for expression is in a dead place.

Why do you think many great works at least respect the iambus? Encoding a voice. What did you think Milton did, other than hear the thunder?

Someone’s voice carries and says so much more about them than a million words. The tremors reveal parts of the heart naturally excluded here.

You can protest and reveal and submit and catalog and record everything, all of us, our History, the coming Plan, Newer Configuration, Pentultimate Lair Waiting; but this is the final lair, here, today.

It’s the words. Simple fetters.

If we’re going to have words, why not say there’s magic then? Even if it is the rosebud stabbed in, while the vines turn the skin pallid and the thorns wrap further, I’ll savor the moments between.

The moments where one deludely thinks it’s nourishing.