Lumosity of Sentient Dimentia

What power lay in the cresses of a word? Where is it that the word catches hold of the hilt of the sword and resolves the revolt of bloodlust into expansive understanding? Which pen is the mightiest, the one which lay to waste the aspirations of the cunning, of the sly? The invisible pen, the pen that is writing out all of our lives, each waking (and even sleeping (and even dreaming)) second, to the ledge of an unprecedented commitment into the realm of the Be-yond.

It starts almost silent, just a few hairs raising on the backs of supple necks. From there it can go one of multiple ways, and some lead us to believe that in fact, it is going all of the ways. Where then does the word fall in? Which word? The word or the words? Something about the nature of a word starting in the deep crevice of the unconscionable and travelling all the way into the realm of being; becoming more than just the seeming prospects of objects, shapes, alphabets (a b c d, et al.) and goes deeper into the deep unknown; so unknown, that even the ones professing of proficiency know not where it is that the last folds of unfolding fall shy of the mark of. The mark of. Almost as in a dream, which some call reality, which some call reality, which no-one knows how to understand, which some know how to configure; yet at the best of times unknown, and at the worst? The polarities of becoming, and unbecoming travelling from the deep caverns of pliability. Assume, assuming responsibility the unknown unfathomable depths of pain. Where strike forth the need for more, and thus, unbecoming the less, and lesser still, till stillness must breakthrough and all that is left is the question of the word.

What is, truly the power of a word? That profane and arcane mysteries come together simply in the conjuring of even the simplest and singlest of atoms of linguistics, and suddenly how exactly is there a shift in apparitions from language, lingua to linguini, pasta. Food as the breath of the word, and wine the spirit. The truth that lay at the ends of misty, broken nights doubled over and through with the cracks of broken shards of broken glasses. A stop, a pause, a rest and the rest is music. What is the word of the music that comes and goes as it please any and all. The rest of breath around which the truth of unhappiness and misdeeds of folly and fame come together leaving behind the broken ash of a tear drop, so soft, so subtle, missing the light of the day, missing the tune of harmony around which comes together the complete isolation and abandon of kinship, kinhin, walking, mensuration, measuring the understanding of how and where it is that the word truly lay. Does truth as a word contain the truth of the word? Which word? Surely this one, and the next, and all it may contain within the folds of wilderness and some saturnine song. The music only to accompany the rest, and the rest is the word itself. Concepts as flowing tunes of harmony and melody and going on and through into the tunes of once alive and now dead spirits. The words of the dead come on and again to haunt us, as we are all not alive, and not living, thus the word from the depths of death comes back to haunt the true spirit of unknown. Where? Where lay the rest of music, the glorious pause holding the signs of melodies yet to unfold. Yet to shine down on us as lit up fireflies crying through the silence of the sharp dark night. Pretense and foibles all shine true of the essential character of the word, and with the word come the images of reality itself, as all of reality unfolds to hold true the unforgiving whiplash of existence in a world that denies both existence and pain, and the pain thus, creeps in over and again in such a way that all must become something other than the becoming of the word itself. What, then, is the power of the word, in the face of this brutal music of rests and harmonies.

And then, there is poetry.

And still, there is poetry.

And for times to come, there will remain poetry.

Which word? Which is the word that represents the pause, the melody, the harmony, and the poetry? Almost like a script, unscripted and then, flows the whole experience of chance. What is chance? Where does chance come from? Many call it by many names, yet the crucial element remains. Is it in the rest or is it in the tunes? Is it in the harmony and not the alphabet. Where does music and where does poetry become this hapless instance of chance becomings? Chance as the unknown variant in an otherwise seemless whole, the whole of the word itself.

Who reads? Is it the pen itself coming out of the word or is this the dance? How is it that we un-attach from the seeming becoming that we are becoming? Like every moment in the whole painting a picture, which neither do we see, nor do we create, nor do we experience, nor do we understand, and it is to this last point that all raise their chalices. The platinum chalice, the cup of immortality holding the elixir of life itself, yet the music, neither the poetry holds any qualms for any under any circumstances. How many tips of the glass finally do we need to understand that unbecoming is itself the becoming?

Why questions? Why not accept chance as the one final savor of the ethereal, transforming the race into a bouquet of gossamer wings tipping over whole wings? It does not end; it is rather a sublime art. It is.

What then is the word? Is it something that is oft-quoted yet off-puttingly cliche (Apologies for the spelling)? Is it even there any more? Has it ever been?

What of the dementia of knowing un-knowing itself? Breaking apart at the seams and going on and on till someone calls it a splinter and the splinter breaks off? When pain becomes the music of poetry and requited wholly, poetry becomes the muse of music? Will anyone wake up at SOS that is to say at 5:05 (Am and Pm); what then is left for be-ings to understand. There is none here: No reason, no understanding, no life, no death. There just is.

And gosh darn it!

If it is not beautiful.

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Lumosity of Sentient Dementia