[Phragmenta] amount of text
Nights that you have such a dark front and looks solid, an oil that you know to be soaked through to hard, dense, too thick for any light, a darkness that seems to want you to eat, and the lights are useless, illuminate an interim one night you might be carrying in your heart because it fits the dark, but now is exaggerated. Dark \\ light, read the margin, the boundary between the streetlights that are the oasis in the abyss beats irregularly (nor can you tell where is the irregularity in you or their) time, checks a space that we all know, does not exist until there juxtaposing a network , a filter, a cigarette that smokes. Where does that light, that darkness? Or there are no dark or light, they are perfect in themselves?
--- "Everything is broken" I thought while I collected all that remained of "my" bike education ("my" because before moving into my hands was of others and of others before them, and before them was perhaps a benevolent demiurge formless matter to assemble in two iron rods and two-wheel and inflate the life called "Graziella").
Everything breaks, wears out. Just find the tooth hard enough to break it.
Chains, metaphorical and otherwise.
links, metaphorical or otherwise.
ideas.
wait then. Your link will be eroded by sliding my water: I am the water that hollows out the stone for ever. Calmly. Dedication.
No (I do not know to be) the bite that breaks the rings, those of a chain of iron or with the real you imprison fingers lovers, deluded by the dream of the gold survive: it is better for me, for the idols that Heaven gave me, to be the river, that if the rock is to bar the way to avoid sliding on the sides. Nothing more than a mountain stream. Nothing more than the flood of the Nile.
---
The modus of being is perhaps the alternative. Day / night, hot / cold, up / down, black / white, man / woman. Everything finds boundaries and the sense in having a nemesis. The experiment is based on the concept of opposition. What can not be opposed not sense nor measure, did not rule in order to be compared with each other on their own. The limit and not the content. Not what things are in themselves, but what they have in their being different from the rest. The Sciente does not speak of knowledge as a by-self, talk about it in different quantities. The converse is no less than draw a margin, expressed by the power limit at the time, drop in the shoes of the poor language (linear) sequence of pure circular gesture. And it is more (less?). Expression is just that margin. Being sta in bilico su un filo, e anzi esso è il filo in sè.
---
Vi è una parola che non può essere pronunciata, che non è mai stata pronunciata.
Proibita da sempre, di essa si è persa la forma. Si è fatta nei secoli orpello, inutile somma di segni che non hanno mai calcato la lingua di nessun mortale.
In una delle trecentocinquantamila sillabe del Clementinum è nascosto Dio: nessuno ha messo in conto che il suo Nome potrebbe essere impronunciabile, paradossalmente blasfemo e cacofonico, un'accozzaglia di rutti e gorgoglianti borborigmi, troppo lungo: se a sillabare la possanza of a god was necessary eons and eons of wind, what use could have its true nature? The name of God, or a simple rose, it would be centuries and millennia warning to our limitations, our mortality. Even the first syllable sounds that gave birth to creation, the primordial Om which is, in our perception and risky technocratic, cosmic radiation, the initial wail of a universe that removed heat from the uterus of the Possible, enters the Royal and Cosmo is fertilized by one of the (infinite?) spermatozoa of combinatorics.
It was never said, nor reason nor in vain, that name All of God that lives in this world is unworthy of his perfection? A God who creates a world that can not name a name, that "God" is to be? No one can testify to the presence, if not a paraphrase, no one can say that "He is, traditionally being (psychologically) blocked by a verb that is not (nor can it be done word then how could it be made flesh?).
0 comments:
Post a Comment