I am tired of being a free floating signifier
Referencing nothing but myself-
We create an echo chamber where we hear nothing but ourselves
And immortality etched in black and white
Except that text is now hyperspace and all things can be erased
Temporal at best
I seek permanency in the midst of epheremality
Bauledlaire was right
Nothing is fixed
And in the indeterminacy lies the weight-transparent not a vacuum, filling space does not fill the v0id
How long will any of this last? Does anything I write change anything??? Will it change you by reading this? If not what is the point? Does there have to be a point? Is it meaningless if I cannot define a purpose? Or if there is no outcome?
What of any of our actions? Waiting for the larger ones to come, the big events, which never do do I squander the smaller moments thinking they are unimportant? Perhaps all the weight of the world rests on nothing more than a speck the size of pinhead, an infinitesimal second, a glance or the scent of my sons head after a bath…
We scratch out the illusion of our permanency in language-black and white
To announce ‘I am here”
And if I do not, does that mean I was not here?
Watery mutating ripples … that languish in the empty spaces I call my imagination or what is left of it
Nothing now but a cluttered room of regret, echoes of self signification I can still hear scratching under neath the silence
So I don’t forget
nothingness wrapped like smoke that hangs in a slow heavy vapor reminding me that even air is indeed a substance invisible and everywhere
In between we create meaning out of shadows, layers of waves travelling through time appearing to be frozen, to be solid, to possess weight where this is none except our choice to make it so
What else am I going to do? Clean the house some more??
Or watch my world vaporize in the head of a needle?