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self blind
Mar. 1st, 2016 01:59 pmshe looks out over the emptiness as though out over some great expanse. some method of collaborating evidence. some answer she'd been looking for all along. you know how it is, when you think you want an answer, when you think you're ready to know the truth, when the reality of it is you're just burning out on only ever getting a lie. it's like that, finding out who you are, finding out what this is, gathering together the answers you've wondered about for all your living days. you know what it's like. do you know what it's like?
it's like walking by a mirror or seeing yourself in an impromptu photograph you didn't have a chance to prepare yourself for: smile and focus, three-quarter your gaze, bring it back around to some sort of context. but the thing of it is you can't make a context for yourself. there isn't a context to be made. you're too close to the matter at hand. this is you, after all, you as in who everyone else has come to know and love or at least expect, not the you that you believe you are authoring in the sensory-impaired moment because:
we lie to ourselves, we ignore ourselves, we write over who and what we actually are, or we ignore that being for our inexact inventions, our withering perceptions, the who the what the how the how and how. the breath and the digestion, the immediate realm of conflicting thought, hello hello, are you in there, who am i talking to, who's been talking to me, whose line is it, anyway? we remember what we remember and we forget what we forget and back and forth, sometimes we forget what we remember or remember what we've forgotten. it's like that. there isn't a definition. there isn't a boundary around it. we are everything there is about us all at once and nothing to do with our selves at the same time:
and that's why a photograph can come as such a naked shock, suddenly giving this intangible amorphous mystery of the every moment full and undeniable form: how it felt to sit on that couch, the lighting around you, the faces of your smiling friends, the thought you were thinking, the moment you were having, this insulated bubble of being popped and burst all over the page into this awkward tangible brick wall of self which is always exactly the last thing you were expecting it to be.
it's exhausting, looking at things like this, examining the matter from the outside, seeing reality for the sharp corners and cold surfaces, seeing yourself for all your slouching pudgy aimlessness. and yet we insist on looking at ourselves, capturing our essence in an aperture, looking back at a moment that has passed, putting a form around something that no longer exists. no wonder so many of us hate to be photographed, it's too much honesty too far out of context, it's too much form imposed brutally and without structure. it's the chaos of one pulse instead of the rhythm of a heartbeat. there isn't even an establishing shot. just: there you are. naked of context. there in one moment. stretched out and pressed flat.
crap i stopped moving my pen. well, it felt like the text was done. anyway that isn't supposed to be a concept that enters into this equation, "done," "incomplete," moving toward, moving from. i am always incomplete. there is not a complete human being on the planet, not on the ground, not in it, not even the ones who've moved on: our lives are always unfolding, even after they've physically concluded. it's getting hard to live on a planet filled with such incompleteness, i'd say, if that wasn't the way it's always been.
it's like walking by a mirror or seeing yourself in an impromptu photograph you didn't have a chance to prepare yourself for: smile and focus, three-quarter your gaze, bring it back around to some sort of context. but the thing of it is you can't make a context for yourself. there isn't a context to be made. you're too close to the matter at hand. this is you, after all, you as in who everyone else has come to know and love or at least expect, not the you that you believe you are authoring in the sensory-impaired moment because: we lie to ourselves, we ignore ourselves, we write over who and what we actually are, or we ignore that being for our inexact inventions, our withering perceptions, the who the what the how the how and how. the breath and the digestion, the immediate realm of conflicting thought, hello hello, are you in there, who am i talking to, who's been talking to me, whose line is it, anyway? we remember what we remember and we forget what we forget and back and forth, sometimes we forget what we remember or remember what we've forgotten. it's like that. there isn't a definition. there isn't a boundary around it. we are everything there is about us all at once and nothing to do with our selves at the same time:
and that's why a photograph can come as such a naked shock, suddenly giving this intangible amorphous mystery of the every moment full and undeniable form: how it felt to sit on that couch, the lighting around you, the faces of your smiling friends, the thought you were thinking, the moment you were having, this insulated bubble of being popped and burst all over the page into this awkward tangible brick wall of self which is always exactly the last thing you were expecting it to be.
it's exhausting, looking at things like this, examining the matter from the outside, seeing reality for the sharp corners and cold surfaces, seeing yourself for all your slouching pudgy aimlessness. and yet we insist on looking at ourselves, capturing our essence in an aperture, looking back at a moment that has passed, putting a form around something that no longer exists. no wonder so many of us hate to be photographed, it's too much honesty too far out of context, it's too much form imposed brutally and without structure. it's the chaos of one pulse instead of the rhythm of a heartbeat. there isn't even an establishing shot. just: there you are. naked of context. there in one moment. stretched out and pressed flat.
crap i stopped moving my pen. well, it felt like the text was done. anyway that isn't supposed to be a concept that enters into this equation, "done," "incomplete," moving toward, moving from. i am always incomplete. there is not a complete human being on the planet, not on the ground, not in it, not even the ones who've moved on: our lives are always unfolding, even after they've physically concluded. it's getting hard to live on a planet filled with such incompleteness, i'd say, if that wasn't the way it's always been.
