THE METICULOUS DERANGEMENT OF THE SENSES

and i always thought my being plural was a shockingly authentic scenario, like a landscape that lies undone at the edge of perception. but sharp. like a cosmic eye, intimately angled. uniquely immense yet appraisable. when you reach that ruthless stage of liminality between resisting the temptation of a definition and the unbridled yearning of belonging – labile arrangement within a standardized presentism. my exportable self chases a language to articulate a corporality. substantial, in the best case. a daunting task, nevertheless. my own mono-directional reciprocity. digging deep in endless spirals hierarchically constructed. sickening power relations settled by the self to destabilize the self. roots as chains, roots as ascendant memories of a past never past. and for a moment caught somewhere among binary collocations that neither lead to settlement nor foster acceptance. and to verbalize becomes an eco-chamber of the inexpressible. for the voice from the womb spreads fractal, and the voice of the mind dilutes voracious. and the voice that recounts the other version of the story. and the voice you ingest when you read. assonances, dissonances, resonances striving for a grounding statement. to anchor oneself to a consensus of same sort. but the way i taste is not the way i see, but the way i smell is the way i hear, which is definitely not how i touch. all colliding with the way i speak. desire is present, even in its absence. that drive towards a ripened shape of existence. longing as a verb entails an extension of sensing, dislocated, and therefore, disembodied. i started to vocalize my fears by using a rupture tense, to reach that outsizing nothingness, and nothingness seduced me. i have to devise an amended choreography. and all its misspelled adverbs. honing new curves like the chasms of the horizon. where everything lies reversed but reflective. oozing out mortal fallibility. because duality is not merely double, because the counterpart is nevertheless multiple. and then all this dramatization on initiating. i have always assumed that enduring is the hardest. however. since the origin invariably holds apologies that can be ascribed to a metaphysics of common sense. but how about a consistent pursuit which is called attempt, which resembles madness. which calls upon the heart. apnea and gasping, a lungs’ apotropaic dance. which is not simply breathing. the grey zones of the exotic. and even though speech is a vibration that acts by way of dispersal, words are solid and pliable. and ultimately one chooses the lemma of the heart that do not fall into any dictionary but blend the diaries of feeling. heteroglossia. my native parlance as a phantom leg in frantic abandonment. an organic translation between the mind’s epidermic layers. omissions included. the moles on the skin. and assigning a language to a place, to the place that propagates its endeavor. and each city has its own radiance and its own filth, with cars’ headlights blazing amniotic fluid of half-orphan offspring, auratic. and contamination that turns into energy. glass and concrete. so accurately tensioned. and the pitch of my whisper that morphs and adapts and i discover how my throat contracts, how my tongue fails. and i entrust myself to the other via listening to incarnate an enhancement. a perversely gentle action. a violent access. and if you had to write your manifesto, which terms would you abuse. it is the same paradox held by winter flowers. so utterances are suspended in the concavities of my limbs. i betrayed myself. just as light betrays its shadows. twisting itself into unintended projections. vacant and naked. scratching away a form or a notion that has so far been addressed with suspicion but intrudes suddenly into everywhere. it was essential during that inexorable process of dissolution to extract the pre-existing structure out of the fingers of oblivion, i said. or foresight. or delirium. to (un)learn the script. to chew thoughts. to adorn a sensation. to fill the mouth with broken air. dying of death. to have the future back. all that life dripping out of the walls. as in the deceptive spatiality of an airport. the stranger in me convulses devoured by the outsider of myself. fulfilled. thoughts stretched in space with physical effort. conversations lapse bare. an atheistic religion of the alter-ego for the anti-ego. a portrait replaced by a tarnished mirror. all that occurs in quotation marks. to exit a simultaneous transcription through a variety of resembling doors. the everyday as portal. marking a contribution to a role already consumed by a foreign refusal. rejection is injection. the palate and its geographical domination. migratory and peripheral, mnemonic and sensorial. the taunting need of pleasing by neglecting instructions. the non-sense of meaning. and to talk as an ecstatic way of composition – expropriated, misaligned, interlaced. an emphasized privilege. unsettling, just like the apparition beamed before me that inundates my will. for the excess of being. not so finely tailored but perfectly fitting. i turn and discern that “back” stands for “beyond.” in my anachronistic way of loving. the first encounter and the first cry, remnants from an umbilical source. site of birth. the sweetest nostalgia, embryonic arousal. love as a link of mutual ferocity. a chimaera spirited by magnetic oppositions. how any gesture of disruption can only be enacted when previous fabrications are incautiously unleashed. familiar with the intersections of a life (a)broadly lived. a reiterate coming. the unbearable delight of subtraction from my undivided sum. the myth, mistold; the findings, decoded. plunged into asymmetries to interpret anew. i collect synonyms eternally incomparable. framing the ephemeral. i am amorphous. i sleep with the unsaid. a flesh-exposed path – both grammatical and erotic – on the impersonal verge of identity. a loss of opacity. a diagram of senses, translucent. a feral appropriation. i mean like to scorn the destiny that i drew to where.