much to say, nothing to mean

And so here we are.

Another night, another nothing. Deserving of posterity? Doubtful.

Able to withstand the force of will I would exert towards any endeavour of personal importance? No chance.

So then, why are we here? What purpose can this have if it has already been declared nothing more than a flexing of the ego? Or is that perhaps enough, to draw on this precious time we have together so that one may search the forlorn night for he, himself, whilst the other despairs the departure of sense?

Of course not. Don’t be silly. But the promise of what may unfold should this quester discover that which he seeks? Likewise unworthy, in view of both the remoteness that he will, and moreso in view of what it must, after all, be. If it were anything of value to anyone, would it be available in such a self-indulgent fashion? Would it lend itself so freely, vomited up as so much mental detritus, expressed as, perhaps, a psychological bowel movement? Not even deserving of consideration!

Why then? Why this, and why now? An overt fondness of question marks, perchance? An extension of daily self-regulation, a ritualisation of the mores to which one might so fervently cleave at any suggestion of social contact?

Or has it merely come to such an awful state, that one can find no refuge other than the written word, the poor man’s spoken word. Surely a fear of voicing what one will could not lead to such grandiose pretence, such ardent silence? And if it did, would that be a comment on the speaker or that which was being spoken – or either, at all?

Enough of such questions. This unwillingness to emote, this lengthy discourse of dalliance, was what lead to this atrocious impasse in the first place!

So, in keeping with this newly established tradition of circumvention and avoidance, let us begin this sorry diatribe with a typically opaque ramble.

What is this, this land of shadows, this place where fearsome beasts of uncertain proportion and ponderous intent, may wander so freely? For wont of a better term, let us act simply (a stark contravention to the previous, no? Dreadful to unravel, this length to which one will go to avoid getting to the point . . .) in the naming, and call it merely the Shadowlands. After all, a shadow has some bare substance to it, some suggestion of that which it represents (no matter how it may distort said originator), and the concept of ‘land’ suggests some solidity, some marking of boundaries, some idea of ‘here’ and ‘there’, of ‘us’ and ‘them’ (‘Them’ even?).

And there, guidance ends. Beyond this, all is conjecture. All have abandoned ye who enter here.

Objects that stood firm and immutable while the sun still burned overhead become hideous parodies, discarding familiarity in favour of suggestion; freed of certainty, they appear in configurations that should never be, taunting, haunting, whispering. Is any of this to be trusted? Can one reach new understandings that would otherwise remain unattainable in this questionable environment? Or is it all merely shadow play, so to speak. Can one have a nightmare without transmuting perfectly mundane objects? Maybe. It is supposed to be less terrifying to confront that which has a name. What other use for this naming business, than to establish some basic element of control, some sense of place. And so begins the trouble.

Run, little rabbit, run! If not the fox you hear, certainly the wolf you imagine! What large teeth you have, conscience of mine. Imaginary ills seeking genuine redress, pressing closely against the quiet petitioners of what may well be, all serving to drown out any notions of effectiveness, any thoughts of action.

Conversations that have never occurred, cutting to the quick. Confrontations that may never be, inflicting grievous harm with their mere suggestion; the possibility that they may somehow find their clutching way into existence a dreadful shiver. What life this, lived in fear of one’s own reflection?


~ by thedyingmoments on November 8, 2012.

One Response to “much to say, nothing to mean”

  1. […] the dying moments’ post Much To Say, Nothing to Mean. […]

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