"Fire is the freedom at the base of the world, at the base of time, at the base of love. An endless fire [...] Equal is wrong. Identity is multiplicity, the multiple One. An unbridgeable gap, a divergent operation, a third which works. Like sorcery. A machine works by sliding ones into ones, breaking and opening them against into another. A musical game of harmony and dissonance: does this belong or not? 1 or 0. Pure logic. A heart works by dividing zeros into infinities, merging and weaving them into one another. A mathematical game of distinction and repetition: how intense is this difference? 1 = 0. Pure chaos. Logic = chaos. In the middle, there is light, only light."
-Joseph Weissman ("The Voice of Silence")
There is a separation of life placed tilting between bibified counter-occurrence and sunsets (bursting alive with laughter, boxing down regret) bound beyond calloused hearts – unset by their intrinsic inabilities to over-comprehend. These, fully and unregretably, are the moments of our lives… and they are unfathomably innocent in the amorous capacities of their infinite wonder.
To speak that life were a liquid ghost, sifting like fool’s gold throughout our perceptions as lights to the stage, is to deny that which spirals before and beyond us. Doors that show us.Who are we to categorize that which is our soulistic makeup? We are all creatures of pulse, and I am yet to find a being incapable of embracing.
All of these moments, these memories, these intertwining of fingers, they are all mere ports of precedence for which there is only one antiphon: Our peace of mind permeates in shifts and spirals, clearing the leaves of our paths; setting the cycles of our movements.
It is my concern – nay, it is my adorance, that the epidermal cages of man are unavoidably used to perpetuate the carnal exchanges of our genetic experience. It is Love that drives us, makes us, kills us; blooming as roses, we are made to crash into halves destroying, creating our very existence. Much as the fruits adorning thorns placed like crowns onto the wilting heavens, it is certain that this much is breath: A Love is a Love is a Love is a Love…
