Friday, July 29, 2011

the misfi(c)t(ionist) [or five elements making you stumble into face and expel]

misfictionist


Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction (Lord Byron)



[WHERE ¾ THE SETTING ¾ COMING INTO AND MOVING AWAY FROM YOUR EYES AS IF IN OSCILLATION] You sometimes just look around, with such an impetuous uncertainty or (mis)appropriate feeling of unease, and ask yourself why it would be wrong if you decided ¾ at least for a moment ¾ to cross frantically the streets of your devoid and dark reminiscences, beckon over the whole far-fetched absence coming from the best-case scenario of all those twisted words you were so compelled to say but did not back in the day, and just break down? It feels like you only exist to… fictionize. But oh, and opps ¾ two eyes are not enough to capture your and anybody else’s essence, their ghosts, their doubles! In this context, how to draw a line that signifies what passes for living and being alive? And then you wake up today ever so Kafkaesque. Cast in the same reality or into the very realm of your misfit fictionisms? And then you are ready to be so distressed over a conjuncture of stumbles, or just to… die away…
[HOW ¾ THE POINT OF VIEW ¾ YOUR VOICELESS INTONATION TO EXPRESS] Words, words… They mean the world for you, especially into a transitory existence which appears to be yours, fully permeated by them, the words ¾ said in moments of glory, temptation, delirium, fraud, everyday tasks, at work, for obvious reasons, or just for nothing…
[WHY ¾ THE THEME ¾ YOUR pusillanimity OR shrewdness, YOUR HIDDEN PAIN OR NEED TO JUST SAY] It is not so hard to accept that words do not mean, so that the silence, not even its “materialization”, but the silence itself cuts across this everything almost everybody takes by the name of… “life” ¾ an instance within the universe of strangeness and solitude and struggles with anything that means “being alive”, one way or another. Words do not capture this (beautiful or unpleasant) movement you live in ¾ as a person(a) or a fictionist? They embroil you in a cloistered environment of enchantment or delusion ¾ as a realm resulting from the interplay between the real world and the virtual, fictional one. As mediated by networks of sensors and actuators, your own plot  ¾ a mélange of both worlds complete unto themselves and merged into one another ¾ is enriched by your words are inept to exert yourself to try out being less absent, étranger, or just existent… And then you keep writing to become invisible…
[WHO ¾ A PROTAGONIST ¾ YOUR MISFIT PATH INTO ONE’S FAILURE] Is it possible that you step into a hall of mirrors, look at your clean or distorted image, and just move away from your purest part in life, this one so willing to be received, accepted, and kept like a gem on one’s path? Why does one leave you in dark and shade when the only touching gesture requested is but the opposite of a painful silence for days and days, months and years? How to not freak out in front of a tormented underground of sorrow and many shocks against the wall? Wondering round and round, alone, nowhere to go or just attempting (brave or deliriously) to bear up well against?
[WHAT ¾ THE PLOT ¾ YOUR EVERYDAY VERY ACT OF LOOKING] By your very turn, your feelings do not show; they are but a scream you have when flying ¾ over and over… A dream but a spleen but a sense: and all this, like a permanent link, as intertwined and strong as frail and destroyable, blows up in your face as if this, the dream, or the scream, or the fear for having dreams, was but a ghost, or a clear-cut idea on your own/else’s misadventures into… life? May be, may be not, who knows…
**THE END PRODUCT [CREATURES INTO THEIR CREATOR], that which can be shared or consumed, is unlikely to “inner sanctum” or outwardly resemble the forms of… a fictionism? Is this life itself or are you living in a simulation? Just stranger than fiction? Why not?



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