after a conversation with D

it'd be easy if i only see the negative in everything

but it seems i see everything in and by the negative.

negative's gravity is so strong it warps itself around

everything and its darkshine makes me see blindness

and illuminates the hiddenness of everything.

reality is negativity now:

my eyes are the color of negativity.

my heart is the shape of negativity.

is it worth going on when there's no way out of this?

can i depend on a dead clock just because

it can show the right time for a moment?

*

haven't you had moments where the negative

was so far back in the background that, because

of your limits, it was as if it wasn't there at all?

aren't those moments worth it?

why think of a dead clock instead of a sewing machine

that's slightly off and needs some oiling every now and then.

*

but what if my sewing machine is really off

and it needs a bucket of oil, poured drop by drop,

to make a moment of cloth?

is it worth going on for an almost nothing?

isn't it better to toss the machine out the window

and be done with it?

*

if you throw the machine out you could hurt someone

who is close to you. do you want to hurt?

and yes, an almost nothing is worth it.

you can use it to hide the nipplepoint of your nakedness

or wipe your snot away.

i don't want to hurt the people near me.

that is the beginning of my life: that ethic.

then if i can't throw the machine out,

do i have to go on, sisyphus-like in a romantic absurdity,

vanishing behind an invisible cloth?

*

no, i don't have to. i have two ways out:

one is where i starve myself of life to shrink to the point

that whatever cloth i make will be enough to cover me

as a shroud. this is the monk's way.

the other is where i take as much life as i can

to fuel my sewing and make the cloth big enough

to be my shroud, even if it doesn't completely cover me.

this is the artist's way.

the two ways will cross.

call this art, not god, but love,

art as the timeless spaceless string of moments,

art as the flower bumping into the seed,

art as the fumbling of the ball that will be caught,

art as the moment between my lips and the world's.

~ ajay

30/9/2024