Sunday, January 13, 2013

Blind


A discourse between me the day before it happened, me the day after it happened, and me now, whilst falling into a seemingly infinite void.

‘No no, you’ve got it all wrong, I’m good things, you know? Creative, productive, loving, progressive, perverse, weird, that kind of stuff, I love myself! Why should I be either of you?’ the me of before it happened queries.

‘Because that from which your creative-productive-loving-progressive-perverse-weird derives is about to conclude that you are none of these and will leave you forever’ the me of the day after concludes coldly.

‘See now, but that’s why!’ ‘I’ now say to myselves, ‘you are yourself why she leaves, day-after you, you hopeless nihilistic wretch, you hate and blame everything you were, but repeat the you that is most culpable: hate, envy, jealousy, despair, and blame.’

‘Fine, so I hate myself and him,’ day after replies.

‘If you must hate then perhaps you should hate yourself more, as while day before contains many – amongst whom some hate and some love – you contain few, amongst whom there is only hate. But I do not think you should hate day before, nor should you hate yourself either, day after. I think day before is grateful for your correction.’

‘No I’m not,’ day before interjects.

‘Well you should be’ I suggest, ‘day after is an ass but he’s not entirely wrong, the fact that you contain him is precisely what produces him.’

‘I thought some awful thing happens and that’s what makes me into him,’

‘Yes.’ I am trying to lead him to me, but I am not him, though I contain him. ‘But you produce the awful thing – the day after you in you produces it, day before – you mold the awful thing that will reduce you to him yourself, or you let him mold it, at any rate.’

‘Right, so his ‘creative-productive-loving-progressive-perverse-weird’ is just suicidal, doomed to produce that which will negate it. . .’ day after has his arms crossed.

‘Like the micro-political proletariat to the micro-political capital?’ yet another me interjects.

‘Sure’ I offer, refocusing ‘but this is not the point. Day after, you’re a good critic, you only contain critics, critics locked in a steel box together in the heat, tearing each other apart, it’s a good impulse, really. Day before, you contain the same critics, the same feral monsters, but you don’t inflict them on yourself like day after does, and you contain many others too, poets, musicians, artists; you know how to fibreglass a boat, and how to make friends! Your being day after in your being day before made you into day after – and you weren’t day after for any productive reason, like making yourself or others better. No, you were day after because you contained day after, because you contained his agitated insistence that everything that could go wrong would go wrong, you stamped your feet and said ‘you don’t love me’ to everyone who did.’

‘We weren’t wrong,’ they opine in unison.

‘Yes, you were. You in fact went out of your way to make yourself ‘right.’’

‘So you don’t have us inside you?’

‘Of course I do, I just know why you’re miserable and why you’re about to be. It’s good to know these things.’

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