Syntax Like Rhetoric

Tiny, grain-like portions are flowing slowly, swerving as they reach each other. Like sand playing with the salt the sea splashes it with, those minute currents speak the language of movement. They move slowly. To the rhythm unheard. To the rhythm known. Like something they knew from before. Something that initiates the sway. Something that constitutes the dynamic of those miniscule formations. They are being carried. But they also carry the flux. Now, it’s burgeoning as its inside bubbles are creating a new direction, a new shape. 

The particles are slowly diverting. Each of them pulling towards itself a swarm of other particles. Together they dance! And then, all of a sudden, they stop. As if they didn't know they’d been conjuring up a ballet narrative under the patient microscopic eye:

It used to be science back in the day. Now, they do it differently. How is beyond my modest research skills.

There is a store that defies the notion of a store. It is an anti-store. At least, that’s how it looks to me. Because it is designed contrary to popular consumer logic. It does not entice hunger for purchasing. Not in the way typical stores do. Its aesthetic is not how one imagines something intended to appeal to customers anxious to spend, spend, spend. It is entirely unornamented. Neat as a pharmacy. No ads. No glitter. No sales. Only clean surfaces displaying the merchandise. Electronic price tags next to the product. Takes one a second or two to figure out which is which: the product and the tag. Takes a couple of seconds more to be fully aware that in such a store people buy stuff despite the unlikely unappeal. Doesn't take much longer to realize that even if all pharmacies looked like anti-stores, one wouldn't call it a consumer aesthetic. In no time one decides not to purchase:

It is the look of stores now. Back then, they used to do it differently. Why exceeds my guessing potentials.

I didn't buy presents for myself when I was a kid. Not unlike many other kids, I guess. Nevertheless, I took an immense pleasure in every opportunity to be given a dress, shoes, coat, schoolbag, stuff of all sorts. I still like the memory of those moments. Not unlike many other adults thinking about childhood. I would hope. I would also imagine that a characteristic confusion of chronological categories and experiences in time occurs in many such reminisces. Thus, many have a sense of the times bygone being more in tune with the needs, desires, inclinations, wishes, and / or aspirations of the person in question. And yet, the person fails to see that the impression results from the very person’s being that same person, only years or decades ago when desires, wishes, aspirations, inclinations, and/or needs were slightly different, too. Kid’s stuff. Like fuck:

More often than not, critical reading of history is nothing but distasteful, self-indulgent intellectual virtuosity failing to acknowledge the importance of living the pertinent aspect of the lesson.

One has always been moving through the lands. Known and unknown alike. Periods of aggressively contagious buzz is not a new experience, but that fact doesn't make the situation desirable. There are languages comprehendible and much less so. All languages are language solely in the service of itself. Or, so syntax has it. Untrustworthy syntax. Kin to rhetoric.

Living in an illusion of its misconceived chameleonic perfection. To put in words a more precise specification of such a delusion is to contaminate the communication channel with ever more lousy attempts to say what eludes verbalization. To agonize over it is to proliferate more failure. To know that is to know what a pharmacy is what a store is what a need is what a kid is what a person is what a tag is what a product is what buying is what knowing is what chronology is what fucking past is what is now what the future is what soft is what crystalline is what clear is what imagination is what thought is what is what! To fuck: yes. To fuck: no.

Sometimes, I think I wish I could see the same specimen every time I look through the microscope. Before the thought even starts to excite me, I know it’s a silly thing to wish. So, I don’t. At the same time, I’m pretty sure I have no interest in being exposed to the same site over and over again. But then, makes no sense bothering, since the tiny portions, albeit slowly, are, nevertheless, moving. I wish I was the specimen. I wish I was the scientist. Either would make all these assumptions more sensible.

Are you castrated?

How do you feel?

Potent.

Then you probably are.

Fuck off!

Am I potent?

How do you feel?

Fuck off!

How do you feel?

Fuck off!

There used to be a thought of memory of the days when one could only imagine in order to feel lovable. A raindrop dripping from the cloud. Like a droplet touches a leaf. Melting like a shower merges with the ocean. Like noise dissolves as one learns.

They say the world has changed. But, has it ever been different? For me, it definitely did. Because of the freshness of the unlikely summer. The summer after which I've been thinking the world in terms of the twilight  disguised in the colors of the dawn disguised in the shade of the unknown season which made me question that reciprocity. But I still don’t know how to get rid of the impossible desire.