Archive for the tag “existential”

A Meditation on God – Prose

            I sometimes wonder if there was a time before.  Before that great, damning pen swept over us, dictating our shape, our words, our lives.  Our world.

            Did we exist before?  Was there a childhood, an ancestry?  Did I have a grandmother, that kind eyed, flutter-winged woman whose dying words left me, and not my cruel stepfather, in control of this struggling country?  Or is that all she ever was, a memory?  Does it even matter, now that she’s gone?

            All we have, all we know, all that is… is what is.  To think too hard otherwise would only lead us into madness.  Especially in this world we must adapt to living in.

            Imagine for a moment what it must be like to be us.  You went and created us — or, perhaps, took control.  You play with our lives, pull heartstrings, on a whim.  Maybe that’s life.  But most lives, I hope, are better formed.

            My name is Aria.  Sometimes Aerya.  I think, once, I was Song.  I change with your mood, but don’t think I don’t remember.  We all remember.  And we play your script like puppets, in the moment believing, I’m sure, every word you put in our mouths.  But we remember.  I remember, for instance, Christophe.  My love.  My future husband, object of my undying passion, who existed but a day before he faded out, forgotten.  You’ve forgotten, that is.  Not I.  Sometimes I wish I could forget him, that you’ll go back one day and notice, scratch him out, keep him from existing at all.

            To live for a day must be crueler than to have never existed at all.

An excerpt of a dramacomedic fiction about a set of characters becoming self-aware of their less than consistent creator.  The poem inspiring the story (or was it the story that inspired the poem?) can be read HERE.


A Meditation On God By Her Ink-Spattered Works

A Meditation on God
By Her Ink-Spattered Works

She carved me with ink, with pressure of pen.
Shaped me in smooth strokes, careful arches.
Streaks of sentience and decisive jabs of
completed thought.
Cut me into this world of white,
lines of blue.
I exist on her whim. Every step is hers
to shape.
How can I not love her?

Hate her.

Her clumsy words
clumsy and cruel,
shaped stumbling feet. This malformed nose on a
malformed face.

Was it ignorance that wrote me so?
I think I halfway hope so. It makes her
kinder, somehow.
More worthy of my love.

A bumbling queen, well-meaning but inevitably unable to
form me, to

create me
into the flawless creature first born in her mind.
That she couldn’t help but try and capture in ink.
And failed.

This weakness I could understand.

But no. No, I think…
she does know.

I remember, once, a time when my nose was straight.

No one else does, of course.
That day is long past.
Scratched from existence, buried under
black lines and angry swirls, replaced with this
The result of an accident, vague and undetermined,
some time in my unexplored past.

And I know it, I know
(though I can’t name how
or why)
that being broken is what broke me.

There was a time when I wasn’t broken.
When she had it right.

So why?

A wordless cry
(of course wordless. No words can be formed without her consent.)
Silent plea, silent request
silent demand:

I know that you’re watching.
Know that you shaped me.
Malformed face in a
malformed life.

Do you know what you created?
Read through the lines.
Off-key dialogue, stumbling words
(stumbling feet, stumbling world.)
Do you know what you created?
Past smooth, curving U’s,
Bent B’s
The occasional, ugly,
angry X.

Do you know what you created?
Did you shape my bitter soul, too?

An excerpt from the story inspired by this poem can be found HERE.

Where Birds Go

There’s a place on campus where the birds go to die. I can’t say why they choose the spot, or how it fits into the strange web of their avian philosophy.  But I can say, truly and simply, that they go there. I’ve seen them littered amongst the stones between buildings like fallen leaves, on their sides, as if in sleep. But a bird has never slept so, and their small black eyes are open and empty.

Read more…

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