those who fell are not cold, but warm with the aggressive polemics that consists of reckless actions and hard emotions. They know the ways, elusive mysterious paths of perverse destinies that we only struggle to make sense of. Yes, they know, and they move as human as they can be. They know exactly the way to go, the freedom to go, but they can't help it, they are just being themselves. But we mock each other, even when we might know that there is more than meets the eye. We live, in a village, where all are strangely familiar, similarly strange. They know the ways, where others are there to veil the ways available to them. She sees, the mysterious as clear as snow, with dried blood spill on the white sheets. and they still know the ways, the ways in which they can walk blindly without guidance (too much guidance) and find a certain perverse position to look at things with a new perspective. they face up. the heart still beats, and they see the sky, clouds floating by. if dreams float by, that is because the sky is as it is and the clouds move where the winds blow. such is the (polemical) orthodoxy of nature. Nature as she confronts us, them, her.
They are us. And we, the painted creatures who suffered for answers, born again from the lightness of the volcanic eruption that is the implosion of our souls. Unleashing the behemoths of antiquity, yes, the confrontation begins with the monstrous forms and atoms of the void within us, raining with fallen angels. the parentheses were introduced, and regimes of knowledge in place to block us from the paradise. the confrontation is necessary. So perversely necessary. We know the ways, as humans, as children of sin. we could not help it. The war began even before they knew. As children, who as monsters of and against humanity, they could probably be the one resistance to humanity. Precariously living, between the child-likeness that makes us adults look over-elaborate and the clarity of thought that makes us adults foolish, we struggle to contain the beasts of humanity. We do not know children. And they continue to deconstruct us, as much as we rape, starve, disable and murder them in order to construct us. But no amount of violence towards them can be compared to the judgement destined for those who slain the beauty of the child. Certain infinity, tossed in the cauldron of perpetual knowledge that is fire - the ironic bringer and destroyer of life - is the most profound violence to humanity. "You will burn for eternity and listen to the gashing and crashing of bones and teeth."
The concept of eternity is scary. Trembling so. The concept of the child, in its transient quality, is also scary, productively so. For in that conflict of ephemerality and infinity is the monster that releases itself from the void within us. And living once again, we co-exist with the ghost who haunts us, as we are baptised by the burning fire (as well). In between human life and death is neither transcendental eternity nor immediate and chanced accident but the inward subjectivity that is never repeated, never outwardly performed and in its quiet way, goes about, ghost-like, into the orthodox order of nature: trinity. Idea, human, and haunting.
The child is probably the embodiment of the trinity: that which is to come, and that which is the blessing of the word that came before, and that which will forever be perpetually subjective and relative to the individual human being. The child remembers as well as it forgets. The child is the atheist who is forgiven because it cannot believe, not yet. The child is loved, regardless of what he or she has actualised or can potentially materialised. It is materiality in itself, that which has no say or plays no part in deciding to exist. Pure material existence. The child gives itself as itself. It is the neutral that threatens the dead and the living. It is a composite of differences. It is the mystery that we proceed to later attempt to assimilate and master. But this neutrality (and orthodoxy) is polemic. It is aggressive. It confronts us. It manifests the pure act of unconditional grace. Nothing is more painful than seeing a child multilated, destroyed and violently violated. But nothing is more beautiful than seeing a child saved, loved and kissed by the seal of faith.
When we fall, an image of the child haunts us.
They are us. And we, the painted creatures who suffered for answers, born again from the lightness of the volcanic eruption that is the implosion of our souls. Unleashing the behemoths of antiquity, yes, the confrontation begins with the monstrous forms and atoms of the void within us, raining with fallen angels. the parentheses were introduced, and regimes of knowledge in place to block us from the paradise. the confrontation is necessary. So perversely necessary. We know the ways, as humans, as children of sin. we could not help it. The war began even before they knew. As children, who as monsters of and against humanity, they could probably be the one resistance to humanity. Precariously living, between the child-likeness that makes us adults look over-elaborate and the clarity of thought that makes us adults foolish, we struggle to contain the beasts of humanity. We do not know children. And they continue to deconstruct us, as much as we rape, starve, disable and murder them in order to construct us. But no amount of violence towards them can be compared to the judgement destined for those who slain the beauty of the child. Certain infinity, tossed in the cauldron of perpetual knowledge that is fire - the ironic bringer and destroyer of life - is the most profound violence to humanity. "You will burn for eternity and listen to the gashing and crashing of bones and teeth."
The concept of eternity is scary. Trembling so. The concept of the child, in its transient quality, is also scary, productively so. For in that conflict of ephemerality and infinity is the monster that releases itself from the void within us. And living once again, we co-exist with the ghost who haunts us, as we are baptised by the burning fire (as well). In between human life and death is neither transcendental eternity nor immediate and chanced accident but the inward subjectivity that is never repeated, never outwardly performed and in its quiet way, goes about, ghost-like, into the orthodox order of nature: trinity. Idea, human, and haunting.
The child is probably the embodiment of the trinity: that which is to come, and that which is the blessing of the word that came before, and that which will forever be perpetually subjective and relative to the individual human being. The child remembers as well as it forgets. The child is the atheist who is forgiven because it cannot believe, not yet. The child is loved, regardless of what he or she has actualised or can potentially materialised. It is materiality in itself, that which has no say or plays no part in deciding to exist. Pure material existence. The child gives itself as itself. It is the neutral that threatens the dead and the living. It is a composite of differences. It is the mystery that we proceed to later attempt to assimilate and master. But this neutrality (and orthodoxy) is polemic. It is aggressive. It confronts us. It manifests the pure act of unconditional grace. Nothing is more painful than seeing a child multilated, destroyed and violently violated. But nothing is more beautiful than seeing a child saved, loved and kissed by the seal of faith.
When we fall, an image of the child haunts us.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment