I wrote this a couple of years ago, so I was wondering whether it will be a good effort to carrying on writing this particular mindless paper. Any
criticism of any form is welcomed.
"In questioning, always withstanding. In truth, always without [it]"
The date is 15th of November 2007…an insignificant calendar number for all the humans…a significant day for moi. Even though it is merely a
picture, slowly digested by time and space, a leaf drifting away into its own shade of Sad Season, for Me it is…the beginning and the ending of
Tricycle; Skepto que, Skepto qui, Skepto quo. An explosive agenda, which ought to be the symbolic resemblance of this particular moment, a glorious
one to be modest.
It has been approximately 20 years of being one with the dead, those whose corpses frantically lie below the earth, below the ground… Realistically,
I have had to undergo the physical and psychological journey of this endless nebulous; one trip where languages and numbers are as small as the
initial cell of motion. Dilemmas, taboos, facts, enigmas were “samples”, were the provocateurs of my own downfall…A summer gesture with cold
winds blocking my face, by blowing it away. Definitely signs of inferiority and irrationality. Until one day again, questions were never too much,
just never enough.
I kept wondering that if I was If I was “in” the root of void, what would the basis of my existence, my ego be of? Would I be more alive or more
…Yet, I am not alive because I am already dead, I cannot die because I cannot die again. I am neither in life neither in death. I am "just";
Gnostic of my own agnosticism. One who will die in pride, rather to live in shame. In essence, I am an abstract in doubt.
Whether it was apropos or not, I am consciously saying that I am a “thought”. One “little god” that was isolated into this amnesia of his own
essence and fundamental nature. A loss of memory, a total black, which I have to endure the turmoil and bewilderment in order to redeem my soul and
salvage the bond with the ataraxia, the Goddess of every energy and verve.
Just a thought inside a deck of cards where each side I am presented with has a new figure, a new tasl. Yet the apocalypse of each distinctive card on
the table, the Game that is, is like an old sadistic and masochist playground… a moment of poker, a strategic and manipulative chess where the man
has to get burned and be burned, get respect and be respected: in order to manifest his own fire, in order to become a true, pragmatic and authentic
man and not just an adherent of a shadow clone.
Teragasa my young ones….when the instinct is never wrong…when the mind is never wrong.
… And as I escaped from my mother’s womb, I started breathing the fresh air of being a youngster slacker, blazing all day under the dark
psychedelic sky and paying tribute to Miss Fate, Miss Destiny and Miss Luck. Since their majesties interfered with the forthcoming movement of life,
compromising with the judgement of death, all in old fashion; holding equally hands with both of them, a magnificent escape I say!
Considering the high and low possibilities of being into vision, alongside with that massive chain of creation and destruction, the gigantic mechanism
of raining blood (war), my survival against the odds and Gods, was praised as a newborn prodigy…praised by I, Baptist Ioannis, the one and
only…Whether I am a charismatic and talented hybrid or the decoration belongs to my thoughts alone, it is a minor sceptical attribution and a
mindless, senseless recognition.
…What matters is the transcendence of what is “I” with the apathy of critique, justification, radicalism. Let us roll.
With my old friend -his name Jack Daniels- I used to vision how it would be to blow the smoke tediously slow; deriving upwards as a resurrected
Phoenix each time there would be a puff, whilst allowing its heir of CO2 to tease viciously those lungs of mine. After all, am I not just a moment of
Title edit by request
[edit on 23/11/09 by masqua]