My head is a circus. The over time deterioration of my face is the over time deterioration of its performance. My body is the limit beyond which that performance was never going to be improved.
I was never going to be improved.
This is a little treat for all those who have ever wanted me.
This is me making sure that there was nothing here, in the first place.
The truth of the limit is that it cannot be seen two times in a row. Once you see it, the impression is already the process of unseeing it.
This is the impression you should have of yourself.
One more time, this is not this. I say it, but it is not yet here. I write it, but it is not yet said. One of the always two things which are done in the doing of something will be the incomplete sense to the second one which is otherwise completely sensible.
As always with two things, one of them is going to let the other one down.
This is about the void.
The one that cannot be slept through. The one that does not let me sleep.
This is about the person on the other side of the void; the one that does not amuse me anymore.
My circus head has stopped feeling so amused. But there is no news on my performance per se.
The person on the other side of the void has become the void.
But a person can become a void if and only if they are not a person.
So I am not sure who is on the other side of the void, but I know now that some people must be avoided.
There is no real depth to this line of inquiry because, after all, the void is only a surface. The void is only a limit.
A surface is a mirror that makes it impossible to look into anything.
Treat 2. The difference of my headache is the head that stays on and the head that falls off. But I am here all the time – noticing it all; getting impressed by everything.
Every fall is abysmal. You will not be staying on the surface for long enough. Whether you have wanted me or not.
I, who have wanted the person on the other side, can only be wanted by the void if I am made into the void.
Yet, the void cannot be impressed by itself. The void is the impression. This is the distance.
This is the difference between head-on and head-off.
My circus head is an unlimited impressionism. It is the limit of the missing: a constant season of voices in a darkness that has become post-seasonal.
The extratime announcers – that live within me.
The people on the other side of the void. Which make it a surface that I look into. And I do look into.
Want me now, because I do.
The rest of the treatise to be written, still. Unavoidable.
Because the void does not dismiss itself. It is the dis-missing.
The out-of-touch limit of the original voice. The one that wanted me, and the one that never did. Both keep me awake.
Draw blood with ink or a knife. This choice is about two different types of representation.
The choice at the limit.
I am in the middle
Listening, so performing. Again.
Ovation to myself. I cannot be made to stand up because I am empty.
The circus of my head is the question: head-on or head-off? Not a choice, but an understanding trying to impress itself.
Post-performance question: do I know more now, or do I just believe less?