I'll tell them they're out of time.
when I have the chance,
I'll tell them they have lost the chance.
I have neither time nor chance.
I am just breathing.
they have nothing else to say.
repeating the words in variants of the same theme.
but these are the words that haunt me tonight:
"It cannot be claimed that we are lacking in belief.
The mere fact of our being alive is an inexhaustible font of belief."
"The fact of our being alive a font of belief? But what else can we do but live?"
"It's in that 'what else' that the immense force of belief resides:
it is the exclusion that gives it its form"
______
It isn't necessary that you leave home. Sit at your desk and listen. Don't even listen, just wait. Don't wait, be still and alone. The whole world will offer itself to you to be unmasked, it can do no other, it will writhe before you in ecstasy.
Kafka, 109, The ZUERAU APHORISMS
thank you,
for those tearless moments,
gasps and pants of inspirations.
i shall now write alone.
The mere fact of our being alive is an inexhaustible font of belief."
"The fact of our being alive a font of belief? But what else can we do but live?"
"It's in that 'what else' that the immense force of belief resides:
it is the exclusion that gives it its form"
______
It isn't necessary that you leave home. Sit at your desk and listen. Don't even listen, just wait. Don't wait, be still and alone. The whole world will offer itself to you to be unmasked, it can do no other, it will writhe before you in ecstasy.
Kafka, 109, The ZUERAU APHORISMS
I feel excluded from this world by excluding the rest as 'what else'.
I am not even waiting.
It doesn't make sense initially. Until I thought about my travels.
It fascinates me that I should discover immobility by moving around so frequently.
When I desire to be somewhere else, I am inevitably manifesting my insecurity. It is as though I am both alienated by the unfamiliarity of the familiar and drawn to the comfort of my passage of play and escape. To escape, really, is to be trapped.
The momentary emotion of triumph can only be shortlived once I realise how infinitely lonely I am as a physical presence - merely a tourist, a paying subject, an object for the foreign gaze, or simply ignored as just another number
To discover really, is to discover my own projections and others.
hence, I uncovered this basic understanding of 'what else' means. In all passivity and activity, the world summons me and demands me to react. I am always overwhelmed, forced into some action that is both mine and not. I move, so to speak.
But really, without the 'what else',
I am so alive.
Every day and night I face this truth. This profound and simple truth.
With it I feel the vessels pressing against the underside of my skin. I feel my bones. I sense the wind and the temperature of the floor. It is as if everything I experience is that mirror to tell me I am so alive. But the curse/blessing is that I cannot be conscious of myself like an outsider can. I cannot look at myself and be myself within my body simultaneously. Beyond this phenomonology of embodied perception, I encounter what is a 'what else' that haunts me.
'what else' do people believe in?
what else do people tell?
what else do people do?
what else is there besides life and death?
every movement is that movement to take form of 'what else'.
This movement cannot escape us. We live to be overwhelmed by the alarming presence of form and images. It is almost as if we cannot live without it. It is almost as if we live to create and destroy.
And for Kafka to tell me to do absolutely nothing (which is impossible), I sense that profound experience that awaits me. It is as though I must ready myself to starve in the desert and be tempted by the riches of this world. And do absolutely nothing. How crazy is that!
But I am reminded that He has done that before.
The moments when I feel closest to Him are when I do nothing.
I face a black (not quite) monolith, voices galore, chanting and enticing but I try my best to ignore them.
and absolute silence (if possible) begins.
I don't have words of laws, variants of the same theme, doctrines, beliefs, lies, and etc to listen to.
I don't have gibberish and foreign languages to decode.
I don't have performances and simulacra to entertain and to be distracted from.
what I have is this feeling of home, in the belly of the void world, where nothing is everything.
And then suddenly, I sense the entire world pounding on me, completely unmasked. When I first read 109, it eluded me. But suddenly , 109 makes so much sense.
In the face of constant repetitions of the same theme, I find instead a perculiar way out of my current predicament.
I am sure I will continue to stumble and lament. I am positive I will cry and despise my failures.
I can be a black hole that unwillingly suck in everything outside me.
But I shall labour to keep my peace. I shall remember the seven steps of your way.
That perculiar way of doing nothing, is so profoundly real to me.
I thrive in the passive synthesis of contradictions not because they bring me somewhere. Instead, it points to me the futility of discourse.
I cannot hear any words. I do not want to. I cannot understand anything. I don't need to.
I shall hear neither myself nor others.
Instead, the Word shall live in me like the Word that people despise.
Such high words, but that is the height that I must face.
No words of flattery, convenience, pleasures and present desires.
Neither some far away land or conceived ideas of eternity.
\Instead, all I ask is home.
\where I can rest, no, not rest,
\be, no, not be.
\be still and alone,
someday...more will join me.
when we stop moving,
but are all translated,
it won't be 'what else'. It will be 'it is'.
someday, I'll visit Zuerau too.I am not even waiting.
It doesn't make sense initially. Until I thought about my travels.
It fascinates me that I should discover immobility by moving around so frequently.
When I desire to be somewhere else, I am inevitably manifesting my insecurity. It is as though I am both alienated by the unfamiliarity of the familiar and drawn to the comfort of my passage of play and escape. To escape, really, is to be trapped.
The momentary emotion of triumph can only be shortlived once I realise how infinitely lonely I am as a physical presence - merely a tourist, a paying subject, an object for the foreign gaze, or simply ignored as just another number
To discover really, is to discover my own projections and others.
hence, I uncovered this basic understanding of 'what else' means. In all passivity and activity, the world summons me and demands me to react. I am always overwhelmed, forced into some action that is both mine and not. I move, so to speak.
But really, without the 'what else',
I am so alive.
Every day and night I face this truth. This profound and simple truth.
With it I feel the vessels pressing against the underside of my skin. I feel my bones. I sense the wind and the temperature of the floor. It is as if everything I experience is that mirror to tell me I am so alive. But the curse/blessing is that I cannot be conscious of myself like an outsider can. I cannot look at myself and be myself within my body simultaneously. Beyond this phenomonology of embodied perception, I encounter what is a 'what else' that haunts me.
'what else' do people believe in?
what else do people tell?
what else do people do?
what else is there besides life and death?
every movement is that movement to take form of 'what else'.
This movement cannot escape us. We live to be overwhelmed by the alarming presence of form and images. It is almost as if we cannot live without it. It is almost as if we live to create and destroy.
And for Kafka to tell me to do absolutely nothing (which is impossible), I sense that profound experience that awaits me. It is as though I must ready myself to starve in the desert and be tempted by the riches of this world. And do absolutely nothing. How crazy is that!
But I am reminded that He has done that before.
The moments when I feel closest to Him are when I do nothing.
I face a black (not quite) monolith, voices galore, chanting and enticing but I try my best to ignore them.
and absolute silence (if possible) begins.
I don't have words of laws, variants of the same theme, doctrines, beliefs, lies, and etc to listen to.
I don't have gibberish and foreign languages to decode.
I don't have performances and simulacra to entertain and to be distracted from.
what I have is this feeling of home, in the belly of the void world, where nothing is everything.
And then suddenly, I sense the entire world pounding on me, completely unmasked. When I first read 109, it eluded me. But suddenly , 109 makes so much sense.
In the face of constant repetitions of the same theme, I find instead a perculiar way out of my current predicament.
I am sure I will continue to stumble and lament. I am positive I will cry and despise my failures.
I can be a black hole that unwillingly suck in everything outside me.
But I shall labour to keep my peace. I shall remember the seven steps of your way.
That perculiar way of doing nothing, is so profoundly real to me.
I thrive in the passive synthesis of contradictions not because they bring me somewhere. Instead, it points to me the futility of discourse.
I cannot hear any words. I do not want to. I cannot understand anything. I don't need to.
I shall hear neither myself nor others.
Instead, the Word shall live in me like the Word that people despise.
Such high words, but that is the height that I must face.
No words of flattery, convenience, pleasures and present desires.
Neither some far away land or conceived ideas of eternity.
\Instead, all I ask is home.
\where I can rest, no, not rest,
\be, no, not be.
\be still and alone,
someday...more will join me.
when we stop moving,
but are all translated,
it won't be 'what else'. It will be 'it is'.
thank you,
for those tearless moments,
gasps and pants of inspirations.
i shall now write alone.
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