The lie attempts to shore up the impossible hole in the real and pure effect. Structurally this is no different than the truth. Yet, without it we may be paralyze. Unable to speak.
I tend to look on the bright side of the darks side and if so, adding infinitum.
This actually gives things a checkerboard pattern.
Since I am not in theory for a necessary code in isolation or my own fortress. There is a unification of contradiction as the assembly of a text. While in some abstract or literal form there is no one-way sort of function for a mind like mine. I can be my own single author without deriving multiple of possible authorial elements to constitute why my life doesn’t matter in the task.
Don’t you know self destruction is beauty while being haunted by a pleroma of potential personification you can never reach. You trace on singularities while I’m gaining attribution to differences also while being in the light of others.
I’m so drifted in memories where an author has inhabits and gathering my signature for traces and allowances to my body. Repeatedly, over and over. I guess I should be blessed in an outline, additional to my detail memory in which may be discerned. What comes next into manifestation in such after the fold of the imaginary thought.
I scream from the inside with expressive intentions and ‘wishes’ and ‘preferences’ while in the case of a narrative I can’t find. It’s like being tied to a pronoun, or perhaps ‘objects’ , ‘projects’ and ‘commitments.’ I can’t stop the inside of me begging to release and succeed with interpretive intentions to constitute how I continue to cut and function.
Grant me the dominant gestalt, however it becomes necessary. Give me all the abuse back to my life in single trees from a tangled forest. You pull one apple away and the rest tumbles _ for that is how my mind work. They say get uncomfortable and while I get toward the dissimilation and differentiation I blink and overwhelm of yielding rather establishing. I back away from emotion, staying dreadfully in the destruction and use my fault, guilt or shame as a common green target. My skin has a lot of scars due to my lack of control.
Somewhere my head it must have registered that a memory is halfway or a sort of compromise between silence and truth. So why, did I stay silent for so fucking long when my memory breathes nothing but truth. I hate myself.
@ellowrites #writing #prose #writers #write