An Evening Pushed Too Far

Multiple Lines

In an instant — I travel the world. All I have to do is close my eyes. Three major land bodies — that’s all there is right?

Watching the plains of an English shire, I wonder about my position in the world.

Am I a relative variable of a complex cosmic equation?

Was the wonderful evening I just experienced a product of my experience, my imagination, an equation being balanced or a divine conspiracy?

My reason denies it all.

It walks me through the events of the day and points to me, the evening conclusion.

Did the utterance of truth, off my lips, cause a butterfly effect? Were those words meant to be silenced forever; never to be uttered? Did I commit blasphemy against an unprotected truth? The only time love becomes an argument is when love becomes a question. When its existence is questioned. A doubt. To be clarified. When the reason for its existence is questioned. When it is asked of. When it is rationalised.

My existence and raison d’être doesn’t change.

I question yours.
So that I can test mine.
Make mine stronger.
And you can validate Yours.
I can refine mine.
You can do the same

You hate me, perhaps, for that. Love, in a sense, is, the contradiction of being. Caused by the unsolved question of purpose of love. Love is only the encompassing container word for emotions of acceptance, ownership and likeness. That is why love is different for you and me. We think the container is love. We never see inside. Containers are the same everywhere.

Love is nothing — by itself. You deny? Define love.

And levels of acceptance and likeness change with time. We ignore that. We look at containers and confuse ourselves with the wrong questions. Permanence has its heels dug strong, only in philosophy. Not in technique, method, assurances or skill. Your sense of sensuous (of the senses; not the sexual connotation) love is as worthless as the decaying body of the three-year-old corpse of the mongrel on the street.

What you cannot formulate, you cannot touch. Hands are not the only device that you can touch with. There are six senses that you can touch with.

What you can’t touch can never be yours.

This is beyond you. This is beyond me. This is beyond discussion. This is beyond conclusion.


Other similar Schizophrenia bouts happened here


2 thoughts on “An Evening Pushed Too Far

  1. Whoa. What happened?
    I’ve had conversations where things get so late and so existential that it appears to be broken or unraveling into outerspace at the speed of light, with no break in sight.
    What happened here?


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