He Stood Still While He Saw The World


Ancient of Days by William Blake

Usually, when I have nothing to write, no brainwashing ideas or mind-sweeping statements, I write about killing someone, about death. Death is always intriguing. But this time I want to write something different. I want to write about writing, which I think I already started doing.

Point to be made: I do not use any intoxicants while writing. The only thing I drink is coffee; the only thing I smell is either the incense or Vanilla candle burning; the only noise I hear is muffled clatter and clamor which scatter and come like Muzak to me. Nothing more.

Stories are not predetermined before I write them. Most of the times, the idea I have is not the idea that is projected on paper. Most of the times, I find myself in a new territory, a new circle where I am the center and I’m trying to radar it all, to see it as clearly as possible so that I can draw a map of it on the paper. Most of the times, the map is not faithful to the territory. Most of the times, I am disappointed. An adjective is missing; the right word; a title; meaning! But to what I have seen, I am indebted and enslaved. The World which I see before me before, during, and after I write, is a dual World, separated by a Blakean compass which encompasses everything in a blurred, foggy atmosphere. The World which I see before me tells me that everything solid may at any given moment melt and evaporate into air particles. The World which I see before me tells me that the rational and the moral and the righteous are human constructs, and thus incomplete. From the truth of an incomplete, imperfect, short-cut humanity, I gain a fiction which strives and suffers to get across and above the border of abstract imagination and step into the realm of the real. The World I see before me shows that nothing is sacred because the idea of a sacramental essence rids us of change and uncertainty, rids us of speculation and doubt, rids us of double meanings , and it rids me of fiction.

I am writing a book which no longer exists (did it ever exist?) and I’m trying to write it from memory.

I write in solitude, in a room with just enough light so I can write. I try not to write about my life, or about any history. I try to make a separate history, one which may aptly lead to the World which I see. If I see ruins, I have to write about a civilization; if I see tall buildings, I have to write about the woodland that preceded it. That same history also moves forward, for in my vision of The World, I see it in any time sense: through the past which was, through the present which is, and through the future which will be. If I see a city I have to write about the wasteland which will follow it; if I see an empty barren field, I have to write about its eventual use as a cemetery. I am timeless when I close my eyes and see everything. But timelessness is also a curse, for everything is already written when I’m done and I do not know if my text came first or theirs came first. When I finish writing, I read what I have written and I feel like I’m reading the whole text of the world, the epitaph of human existence, and I weep to see my words written in such black ink, to hear my words being read in such a doleful and distressing tone. Could we not have written palindromes so that the end would be the same as the beginning? So that the end marks the beginning again? So that we may have rebirth when we reach the end?

I know my fate because I have seen the World of contrasts. I know that when the last drop of ink dries, and the last word reads; when the epitaph of human existence is complete and the library stands tall like a headstone, our civilization will crumble beneath the weight of its knowledge and the crumbling stones of the library will from a great cloud of dust which will blur our vision and will allow only two rays of light to shine.

But who am I to write about the end of the world? I am not a bard. I am not a unique snowflake. I am not a prophet poet. I am just a person who did not know how to choose who he wanted to be. I am just a person who sees the future as a threat. I will never be The Person, I will always be a person; a person laughing alone, then crying, while he does all that, laughing, crying, he is dying. I am just a person whose life just broke/breaks/will break apart in front of his eyes.  They will all say: he stood still while…

Nebukadnezar by William Blake


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