Sunday, July 12, 2009
Things That Fall Apart (Only To Come Back Together)
Eventually you reach a point where all efforts amount to nothing, and you have neither a path before you or after you. There's a voice that tells you that how you see things, is how you are blind. And that same voice speaks now telling you that you have stopped or paused, and you are hovering in-between, with no exits or entrances.
You are in-between yourself and that person. You are in-between losing and having. You are in-between breaking apart and coming back together. You are in-between losing it, and holding together. And you feel it all around you, it is the static, it is that moment before ignition; where gas-filled air is sparked, but everything still remains. Anticipation in the unknown. Will things remain, what things will change, and who will I be afterwards? After all, there are no answers until you push the chair that rests on the cusp losing its gravity and transforming into something else. I want to know what that something is? On what impact can a chair be made into...? What does the chair turn into? What happens when the value of utility of your rest on that chair is no longer? It falls apart, and then what? What remains to the pieces of what was? What happens when they turn around and face the other way? When no one kneels before you, and puts you back together, who do you have, when even you see yourself as bits and pieces, broken and without value? Who helps you back up this time? Why did you fall apart this time?
You are in-between losing your mind and going insane.
But you get back up, you learn to walk again, you whip the smile from their faces as you carry yourself away. For another day, you know you can't escape, but for now, you are together, only to fall back apart. Again with the push, again with the pull. Encore.