Mil Espejos

Mil espejos revelan una verdad

bajo la mirada de un ojo incierto.

¿Son tus pestañas las que crecen en las grietas?

¿O son los pelos de tu lengua que murmuran en chasquidos?

Los sapos y las culebras son ya huesos resecos

en cuya médula vacía yacen enterrados

los recuerdos de tu felicidad.

(fueron a encontrarse con la mía)

.

.

.

Una vez te pensé infinita.

Hoy, aprendo a convivir con la variable irresoluble de tu recuerdo.

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Three Moments

Plentiful in metaphors

I drag myself into your sleep

unable to disguise my naked heart

.

A face in the crowd turns around

and watches itself go

.

.

Time moves on

but I don’t

.

.

.

(I stop becoming)

Registry of Contrarian Occurrences, Final Entry

Type of entity: manuscript. Probably drug induced or acquired through other equally contrarian means. Possibilities might include: undue consorting with chaos entities, unauthorized communion with the absent dead or perhaps self inflicted temporal transposition. Note: how a lowly entity such as this might have acquired the means or the knowledge to access such complex processes remains unknown. This must be further investigated.

Censorship status: Absolute. The goal of this Inquisitor will be the location and utter destruction of any extant copies of this document, including those found in memories, dreams and reflections. In order to achieve this, the complete observation of the 9th Decree is advised: those in contact with the contrarian text must be hunted down and executed on sight without hesitation. Doubt is the seed of change. Change is the bed of chaos. Note: to ensure the preservation of the sacred enunciations, this Inquisitor shall enforces the decree to its absolute expression. Entities suspected of at least Third-degree contact with the heretic, including indirect contiguity and unaware coexistence, shall be terminated and their souls expunged from the cycle. This Inquisitor shall expunge itself from the cycle once the task is completed and the contrarian threat has been completely suffocated.

Contrarian categorization: Irredeemeably Contrarian. The mere existence of this entity in any of its manifestations presents a direct threat to the cycle. The integrity of the Faith might already be compromised.

Reccomended Course of Action: no expense or consideration must stand in the way of anything less than the total extintion of the contrarian entity. If possible, a reality revision should be carried out to prevent the entity, and thereby any products or outcomes derived from its existence, from ever taking place. Although this may cause a false loop paradox, the possibility should at least still be regarded as plaussible. Should the contrarian infection become too widespread to contain, or should its occurrence happen to posses an immovable ontological status, a complete eschaton of the current iteration is reccommended. The Faith shall prevail.

Final considerations: Although the soul of this Inquisitor is of no value or consequence, the Principle of Irreduction dictates that the expunged soul of this Inquisitor should still be considered elligible for resuscitation or at the very least recorporeation to better serve the interests of the Faith.

Textual representation of the contrarian occcurrence:

“I am.”

Reflection I

Becoming suddenly aware of the futility behind every human effort can have curious if somewhat contradictory effects on the mind of a person and, by extension, on the way a life is lived. I often find myself thinking about the relative worth of my actions and my words, especially when it comes to writing. The notion of “worth”, as everything and anything else for which a human language has a word or symbol, is generated by the connections that give it birth. Although there might be some consensus about what something be, meaning, and therefore our perceived reality (the human one), is found at the crossroads of language and intent. A stone is a stone, hunger is hunger, and the wind is, well, the wind, but any action or interaction, any response or reaction prompted by these words, these meanings, are set in motion by the human intent. Throwing a stone at someone to hurt them is no different than trying to make that same stone, or any other stone, bounce along the uninterrupted surface of a lake. The cause and the result might look different, and they will definitely feel so to the ones having their skulls cracked by the impact, but even though these actions may seem totally unrelated to, say, a mother protecting her child from her own father or a kid begging for food, a single, undeniable and irreducible fact remains: all of them suffer from the human intent.

            All of our meanings are inner meanings. So is worth. So am I. So is everything else. Why, then, do I keep weighing my actions against themselves? Why, then, do I allow my words to be shaped by imagined inner meanings the nature of which will always remain out of reach?

            As of late, I have begun to comprehend one thing. It is not the relative worth that ladens my actions. It is not the fear that my intent may be judged undeserving of attention or praise or any other manufactured human meaning. It is certainty that has pinned me down. It is clear, unadultered understanding that blurs my vision and shackles my thoughts. Distilled knowledge, paradoxically free of purpose and intention.

                                                            There is nothing outside.

                                                            There is nothing inside.

                                                            Only in between can we find meaning

                                                            And there is nothing in between.

On Writing and Fabrication

All of this is shit.

I impose structures on myself, and even my words, but words are absolute, good for nothing pieces of crap.

I pride myself on being “good” with words, yet I despise them more than anything else.

They are acts of deception, silence wrapped (warped) by a scaffolding of tortured sound, forced into submission by our egotistic need for “communication”.

What the fuck.

I mean, if at the very least we were good at it but come on. We keep choosing to dwell in fabricated meanings stuck in a self-referential loop that is unable to go anywhere but the surface. Our entire lives are built upon metaphors of shared meaning the content of which we didn’t even get to choose.

But even that is beside the point.

Me saying “surface” implies that there is a “below” the surface and an “above” the surface. It implies that there is something deeper, something hidden, about which poets moan, wonder, lament and cum over, all at the same time.

WE create the illusion, the mystery of the Te, the virtue and principle of every single thing. We assign them meaning and them we turn it around and then we kick it in the face

(Oh please would you get the fuck out from down my window? THANK YOU!)

and say “behave! where is your essence?” as if we knew what the fuck we were talking about.

YET

Well aware that words are lies that we like to believe in, I have never been able to finish one single story. (I lie)

why why why why

I keep asking myself. Because it may not (will not) be good enough, perfect enough, “itself” enough.

And thus you have the poor duskwalker forever trapped in that Safe, cowering in a corner, thinking about Markus and where he might be and waiting for the night to come and the Expanse to calm down and stop trying to eat him.

And Manfred, always the infant and the Witness, all at the same time, condemned to the embrace of his father’s arms as they forget Ada, doomed to be the Harbinger of the Black Sun, forever locked into that last step that would bring him to the other side of the Angel’s gate.

And the nameless woman, frozen in a multifoliate number of endless, ever-increasing, ever-recurring iterations, unable to put a bullet between the eyes of the man that was once a man and her lover, who are now the same, ready to bring about extinction.

And what about the Domes of Fate, and the ever dawning sun of Lucerna? As god bleeds away into something else, the Hierarchs make their last standstill in the Ashen Range, trying to prevent the Still Ones, soulless abominations with a consciousness, from reaching the Domes. Fanatic pricks. The enemy is always within.

Even the Gayatra river has stopped, like petrified blood in a rusted leaf.

All of them are trapped, alone and isolated, stuck and powerless, multiplying endlessly in impotent trajectories to nowhere.

Because I have deemed them not enough “themselves”.

Because I don’t imagine, I reenact.

Because I don’t create, I recreate.

Because I am bullshit and afraid that the only thing I have ever taken an interest into, the only thing I am afraid to find out I am a failure at (or even worse, MEDIOCRE AT!), is the only thing I cannot bring myself to do.

Some years ago, a guy in my town wrote a book. It was horrible. From beginning to end. It was absolute fucking trash. It was so poorly written that if, by some chance or curse that thing had come to life you would still hear it scream “PLEASE BURN ME AND RELEASE ME FROM MY MYSERY”.

(Ok, I might be exaggerating, it was mostly deadly boring with some (many) glaring grammar mistakes, but I need to raise the stakes here to make a point later)

Yet the guy presented it.

He brought it to stores and put up a webpage and promoted it and all that kind of stuff.

He loved it. He cared about it.

He was PROUD of it, goddamit.

Of fucking course, why shouldn’t he? It was his brain child!

Because it really doesn’t matter what I think, or what I say.

Because, to this day, only one truth remains incontestable:

he dared create something

and I have yet to stop fearing.

 

Thanks for reading.

Life in Four Acts

(A short account)

I. Irruption/Interruption

          a stone breaks the surface

          a spear frees the content

          the figure on the threshold confirms

          a mirrored world

II. Memories of Breathing

cavities expand through time

in chained echoes

propelling

the history of air

III. The Separation Principle

deaf to each other

an accumulation of voices

converse

in deceptively convincing patterns

IV. A Process of Longing Unfulfilled

the air aches

to touch the air

but nothing moves

in the country without wind

 

(meanwhile                           

  )

The Fiction of Distance

Dear sister,

I am writing to you with the hopes that this letter will reach you before Spring is over. The weather here is harsher than in the stories father used to tell us. The cold is cruel and sharp, and it has a malicious intent bordering on human nature. It somehow seems to me that, if I gave it the chance, it would tear the words from this letter and spirit them somewhere far away to keep it company. No wonder, though. When I first set foot in this town it was like stepping into one of those paintings at the Blue Gallery, where everyone seemed to have fled to the furthermost corners of the frame and the town was trying to inhabit itself by keeping a semblance of life.

The snow on the street is riddled with trails of wandering footsteps leading to all kinds of thresholds on the opposite site of which warmth and custom keep life barely awake, like small pockets of familiarity connected by lines of motion and absence. The whole town seems to be enveloped by a mantle of silence, broken only by the occasional treading of a solitary figure walking back home or the muffled toll of the church bell.

            Looking through the window of my temporary quarters, I can’t help but think about our time in the summer house with Philipp. The fixity of this place reminds me somewhat of those long days that seemed to stretch into a benign and placid eternity, when all that mattered was playing hide and seek in the moors and our greatest worry in the world was getting home on time, lest mother became upset. It is curious how, as I grow older, the silliest memories keep springing in my mind like a stubborn yet welcome bed of elderflower, while the darker, less enjoyable moments recede with increasing success to a relegated corner of my mind. With the passing of time, however, the flowers wither and die, and only those dark thoughts remain to keep me company.  Like that time when mother reprimanded you for stripping the skirt of your dress because it kept getting stuck on the bushes. As soon as her hand left her mark on your face, I could see the regret mounting on the corner of her eyes, on her other hand reaching for a daughter that she had already lost. As I ran after you ignoring mother’s pleas, I swore to myself that I would never let anyone hurt you like that again. I would protect my big sister just like she had done with me since the day I came to this world.

            Little did I know that I would be the one to break your heart again. Father was waiting for you when you got back to the house. Looking from behind the curtains, I was afraid that he would hit you, and I was even more afraid that it would be my fault. But the sight of your vanishing smile hurt one thousand times more than the blow that never came. Somehow, in ways that I would only later discover, the look in his eyes told me that he had known all along. The next day, someone came and took Philipp to the city. There were no good byes, no hugs or shared tears, just the raw and exposed finality of a pair of hands that would never hold each other again. I never told you, but I think you always knew. When I saw you and Philipp kissing among the tall grass, the unbearable thought of losing you took a hold of my mind, as I imagined you running away with Philipp, leaving me behind and alone. I guess none of it mattered after all. You left for the city anyway the next winter and we never went back to the summer house.

            I wonder if the trees miss our laughter sometimes, just as much as I miss running along the stream, holding hands with you and Philipp, and the peace of our secret spot near the bent of the river. Do you think the rocks miss the touch of our skin drying in the afternoon sun? Sometimes I wake up with the distinct sensation that it all happened yesterday, but then I feel the weight of the years bending my back and my voice ever so slightly, and I realize that that peace will never return. If only I could have made those days last a little longer…

            I hope you are well, Sabella, and that you remember me with the same fondness my heart feels for you. I don not expect to redeem myself by going out in this hopeless expedition of sorts, but to bring a semblance of peace to you and maybe even myself. I do not know what answers await on the other side of the vale, if any, but I have the feeling that there was always more to the stories that father used to tell us, and that’s what I have set off to discover.

If my calculations are any close to being right, I will be coming back home in one year. Although the vale in itself is not great in dimension, the winding path that goes through the mountain pass turns into something resembling a frost labyrinth during the winter. I must tread carefully if I want to make it back and bring to you whatever I find on the other side, even if it is only my empty hands and a heart full of remorse.

Ever your affectionate brother,

William Barker