Confessions from Solitude


To be emotionless one must be silent? No. No. No. Somehow that doesn’t equate to zero. Perhaps our perception of meditation is incorrect. Being that silence precedes nirvana, maybe nirvana is a state of feeling nothing at all? But of what do opposites become? Balance in justice must be equated through divergent lineages. But of what do opposites become? If opposites ambit to final destinations how can we declare opposites as perfect antonyms? For if I borrow context from balance there’s no reason to think that good includes bad, or is even aware of such perceptions if final destinations are reached the same, perhaps, whatever we’re outlining as outcomes is an existential doohickey contrived to label and lambaste what opposites become. No. No. No. But I recall this conversation with a lurid professor that used to pinch the shoulders of attractive students. He had crooked teeth and between the spaces of his smile were dark voids taunting his tongue to color darkness with pink. When he spoke flashes of pink would strobe his conversation distracting the eyes that led consciousness. But I recall this conversation where I ignored his pink strobe and focused on vibrations, as was, what he said.
“Everything is white light,” he explained.
“What do you mean?”
“Everything is white light. A blank waiting for color.”
And as if to mock reality I focused on his void again waiting for color to reveal itself.

I’ve secluded myself inside nirvana, advised by a famous librettist that seclusion inside nirvana is exclusive to us. Us being we and where entails provide seclusion for information. I’ve been advised by a famous librettist that paradise excludes certain information from community to prevent citizens from scrutinizing the libretto. Somehow seclusion is a blessing. Somehow seclusion is nirvana. Somehow. I’ve been advised by a famous librettist that whatever information I withhold could be revealed by organ function. Each pulse a confession to expiring tissue that what belongs in paradise ought to be secluded from self. There’s no obvious entry. There’s no compliment to expiration like that of secluding paradise from self.
I’ve initiated writing the Opera! Why? That shrew. That goliath shrew will be stationed in her dressing room abusing notes with her waddling gullet. And that knock. I must respond in silence. But there’s a fly and I discern cross-eyed as he Loopdeloops through invisible vibrations as the knocking reverberates. Go away! But I have the solution! The indelible answer to your goliath shrew problem. And who’s I? I is useless when asking for us. And us is I. As much as butter is milk and milk is mother. That knocking. And that fly. The fly he’s situated on my pen. I’ve initiated the Opera! But why? If this fly insists on situating on my pen! Sometimes the night is obscure and bare of garnishment. Sometimes US is I and I is too and mother’s milk is butter and butter is best served to two. I rest now to pardon obscurity with silence.

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