freeflow (jonathan sullivan)
Literary Hemophilia and I don't want the bleeding to stop...
If you call me a madman then I shall smile but I write my truths, my perverse, convoluted truths.
First, love confuses this man yet it's alright. A sorcerer once said that love is ignorance but isn't it ignorance with the desire to learn everything about that person? Another great man said it seeks only itself, it is the ocean and it is the shore. Let love be known... no, let the thing be known in its own time for I am but a traveler in this life as I was and will be in each and every life before this and after this.
This is not my first life. It is the beginning of every life that follows it. It is joy and it is sorrow knowing this thing for what I loved is far from me, though not gone, just from my reach. It is joy and sorrow knowing this thing for everyone I love will someday be far from me and though not gone, out of my reach.
With pen on paper my soul outpour like flowing ink from flowing inkwell. Outright the truth of my soul is borne and on the paper for all to perceive it lay, and all its madness is there, a naked thing. Tell me now what my subconscious knowingly hides from me or at least I refuse to see, yes, send me that honest answer I do so crave. I’ve said before the madness come and madness go but I do not want reality to go with it, to and fro. Let reality settle like dust upon a shelf and let it lay there, let it not be stirred.
I don’t mind the constant change, nor do I mind some sense of stability in this world. For once I wish I might close my eyes and all be the same when I open them. Somehow my own words seem like lies, like fantasies. “Surely the world does not change so fast” they would say, they being the voices of doubt in me, and in return, in earnest reply I would say “but even you are fleeting in your opinions.” The voices are silent then.
We exist along a single line but the line is neither bent nor straight for within itself it is infinitely wide and we cannot see the edges. We live in the zero space of that line and there we live in the hands of infinity. Marvel not at its vastness but instead upon your own smallness. It is then we wish to explore our own yards, not the cosmos beyond, for how can we understand value when we do not know its absence?
Come down from the lofty peaks of the mountain that is your common enlightenment and walk with me in the pastures of bliss and knowledge. It is not truth you hold but it is the knowing that it is real! Doubt the real, know the truth of unreality above all else and define your reality for yourself! Is that not what reality is? What we perceive to be?
To be cognizant of the truth is to be awake. To dream however, is to make one’s own truth and hope the world does not forever remain incognizant of it. A person may write his own math, in essence rewrite the rules of the universe should he be so driven and this makes me wonder. Why do we, those of us who in some way can recall, why do we not always dream? It is as if we have resigned ourselves to the splendor and radiance of those souls which are new and have damned ourselves to sit idly by and coach at best! No! I do not so resign myself, I am weary but I do not believe I am done yet. Let me shine, let me burn bright and let me glow with the radiance, the fire of wisdom.
I once denied a man his existence and so he ceased to be. His name I so forgot, his shape and hue and tone, the cadence of his voice, his eyes I too forgot. And so he ceased to be. Forgiveness I ask, knowingly of that I do not so deserve it. This I ask of you man who I forgot and cannot remember.
I am base and low for I not where my heart says I ought be and so I strive, strive to gain mere inches towards that goal and defy this shell by which I am given these hands to express myself. But are we all base, low, bestial beings by which the bread and butter of our existence is the triviality which man calls ‘custom’? We bind ourselves to it. We draw sustenance from it. Worse yet, we create and abide by it. I say I am a base, lowly thing because I desire not merely the benign goal of elevating my soul to another level of existence but because I wish to impress with my determination thus. Forgive me.
Is it wrong to think oneself to know of matters of the soul? What of the heart? What of the very nature of being human? Does being conceited make you also wrong?
… and yet it does.