Where my testicles are named Sirhan and Sirhan, my imaginary pet crows are called Hickey and Syzygy. Their sight is my own as they are in fact my aspects, one angelic and one not, bending my ears to engage my conscience with tales of what their flights have partaken. Their perceptions could be no more different in roles of hawk and of dove, for what sets them apart as always and as ever is the pinnacle of subjectivity called love.
I think either political or religious fury is largely horseshit, doldrum reactors coming almost always from self-imposed places of ignorance metaphorically and literally alike. Because I know real sentimentality hurts far too much to leave anything left for a fury. Sentimentality is the great leveler, as regardless of who, what or why any of us purport our passionate yearnings, we all possess in our grasp nothing save our irrespective weak-spots, the on/off button from which all matters are kept at safe distance. The terms and conditions of survival are predestined on understanding that distance is at once more protective and more claustrophobic than all barriers, the greater the distance the greater the protections and yet the greater the distance the greater the claustrophobic confines of space meeting time. Where time is a point of view, space is nothing but a view. Perpetuating the view of what captures our sentiments, this view for which the act of living itself becomes a series of unrelated processes all measured finitely towards solicited exchanges of our resources and our opportunities in this or any life, far and away from our possession, away from our foresight and our hindsight. We trade it all for what we like to see, to spite how a thing is forever itself and never the thoughts or feelings of itself.
Because what obliges our chosen direction in life so vaingloriously singular in cause and effect, what compels all our momentum and insists upon our resources and opportunities, is not a matter we build towards or strive for or pursue, but rather are we rendered captive before the gravity of it, falling hopelessly into it with every fibre of our being and unbeing. The strumming of heart-strings is cacophonous maelstrom, of creation unraveling and of destruction raveling. It is thunder following the universe from ago, and the lightning preceding the universe yet to be. And so proves not a highway but an intersectional crossroads, a midsummer night’s dream. Whether expressed as a noun or a verb love is a descriptive all the same, and not itself what is sustaining or what is being sustained.
A love which is real can never be dependent upon killing for its longevity, only a matter wrongly taken for love, because what was shared by and for that love has already been loved, and thus cannot be taken away from memory or experience. Killing on behalf of your political or religious beliefs, killing simply for what you would like, to ensure its continued existence on up to fighting for its supremacy, attaches to that treasured thing a disregard for the sanctity of life; hardly a benevolent or virtuous act of conduct for any concerned party. Bodily autonomy inherent to basic human rights insists that any act of self-defense stops shy of murder. Any killing reveals its motivation as being by or for something other than love. Just as those calling attentions toward what they elect to love, in actuality are desperately seeking out handholds to forbid their very own collapse therein and therefore. If I were to begat a sect, its goal would not be a sharing of what I am made helpless to love, but rather to prompt those partisans into saving me from its cause and its effect, sales pitches pronouncing the might of the thing I love, a warning to hold me down steadfastly, to prevent my climbing corporate ladders and to prevent my political or religious rise amongst social circles, prevent my rapture, my alien abduction, my undoing for its sake, the thing which claims me as its own. We can be born of love, we can be recreated by love and we can be killed by love. but love does not sustain, its sentiments weighing us down the collapsing gravity of the darkest of inescapable black holes where no light lingers long, for there is nothing to be lit, just as nowhere is ego necessary.
Hickey leaves no detail unobserved but forever misses the bigger picture; Syzygy cannot help but to take in the grand design but misses eternally the fine point along the way. Neither alone seeing what they need to pass through whatever remains of this or any life. Because flattering or not, no aspect of ourselves is fully representative of ourselves, no portion complete. Implying that even that which we love most about ourselves is simply not enough, lest we harbor no desires to follow or to be followed. In that respect, the only objective attribute to love, lay in assertions of ts necessity, though what procures its survival is the mutuality of giving and receiving, with any iota of unevenness being the one and same unevenness destabilizing everything from our self-perceptions onto the sun, the moon and stars. What we dare sacrifice for the proliferation of our sentiments, is a pain we cling to as though our lives depended on nothing else.
Language must be the erroneous practice of knowing tsunamis as anchors, lest we require no words at all.
Perhaps nothing in life hurts us more, than the pure subjectivity of love, a subjectivity of sentimentality so devout with tunnel vision for person, place or thing that it can never truly be shared. And when the only thing perceived is the dreamy goal itself, heads turned no other way, then such ambition itself is the rightful target of all fury. Wherever love factors, the means do not really want their ends, for what they offer all other matters in turn and what they provide all other matters in turn, is always something forever beyond us.