/the "incurable" truth of having read a philosophy book, aged 21, like some sort of gateway, having never been exposed to the "genre" prior to... and then realising... unlearning the rigidity of having studied chemistry in hope of pursuing a menial profession... while at the same time savouring a youthful taste for humanism, in Dante and Stendhal... somehow there must be a reconciling vein of thinking... given... sure as **** i'd settle for playing the piano in my spare time...

a rigid post scriptum, because, what else?
poetry as a form:
   for spatially coordinating an
anti-****** of narration, which is
                                  ars (poetica) per se...
esp. these days...
   coincidence of a moth being dormant
in my room upon finishing the kundera bluff?
or just allowing it to gently land on
my hand, inverted exposing a weak wrist?
moths are so much more
friendly, or rather, less shy...
                           than butterflies...
that famous persistence of a moth banging
against a lightbulb in masochism,
burn, after burn,
             blind moth flew and touched
the sun, lunatic moth spoke to butterflies
of the sun...
     hidden in every nook and cranny
during its lunar escapades...
        stupid butterflies only felt the need
to bask in honey...
            and mimic surrounding
colours...
            but moths... travelled through
spring, summer, autumn,
  and on the odd occassion...
becoming akin to the mutant generic fly
rudely woken from hibernation
in winter...
        this one, feeling a common warmth,
flew out of nowhere,
  danced the dance of thieves' knives
with me, touched me once, and subsequently
hid behind a painting on my wall...
apparently i, dormant fire,
    "unconsciously" gloated:
   ah! to hell with all this scientific terminology
subtracting the basic, creative impetus
for the language of man!
   nonetheless!
            such is the nature of originating
with the a priori of chaos...
                and the a posteriori of order...
and whatever metaphorical dualism
takes your fancy...
                   but as a sidenote,
   in pop-culture...
                 scatter-brain says:
       my thoughts are never what they once
were, in terms of coherence, in terms
of entertaining others,
    within the confines of cogitatio qua narratio...
no... the whole off-shoot
of res cogitans, is moments such
as this...
               what pop is made ref. as
ego-tripping?
               hence my attempt at my own
dialectic working from descartes...
   res vanus: empty thing...
                           i am... void-tripping!
ego attaches sum attaches potential
      or attaches a lack of potential (bragging)...
          what is void-tripping?
music, primarily...
                    an uncoiling serpent,
                 a breathing dragon,
                           a scared mammal...    
and then the collective gape of mammalian
counters to debase the crypt of
shed skin, scaly tattoos...
             from lizard, to mammal,
           and unto the insect comes the gaping
Aeon March...
              the moth, the larvae of wasps,
or as the Hindu sages say:
          spare the ant,
                          glorify the worker...
    of this genesis of life,
                       insurrected from within
by pathogens, viruses,
  armies beholding the moth-head as god...
point being...
            ego-tripping is a luxury within
the confines of res cogitans:
         of "thinking"...                  qua ego...
         void-tripping? is a luxury within
the confines of res vanus:
          of "being",                       qua sum;
void-tripping is a pulse...
    a pulsating sensation of an
expanding and contracting space...
      i can only assume that ego-tripping
is a threshold,
    a humming sensation of a past
  and future time in
  the acute sense of a blink
of an eye (calculus of the trig.
tangens f(x) - if that can be visualised,
                  rather than "understood").

sure... people can speak the language
of the people that also know how
to haggle... gamble...
                      and become prey to debt...
the lingua of commerce...
            i could write a ****-show
of a teenager's wet-dream when it comes
to love...
                  but i guess there are worse
regrets than finding the Crusoe
  of literature that's philosophy aged 21...
****... could have been lysergic acid
or something...
                and the english students
can write their english books...
                   because: english students need
to write something in english...

         i'm going to have to resort
                 to writing something in: human;
with the inconvenience of
it being written using english;
       which i suppose is equivalent to
talking about Islam in arabic these days,
must feel pretty ****** talking
about Islam in arabic these days...
                   nothing wrong, eh?
                                               nothing?
pretty much the same as talking
human feels like, talking in english
                                                  these days.
perhaps the idea is true:
   but certain tongues exhaust
       the transcendental construct of idea...
Islam has one fallacy in its current
affair with genesis:
                     the adherence to arabic...
    seen the ***** of Tangier and
                       the Gomorrah od Dubai?!