Our Walks

As we walk, we sometimes feel as if the valleys were corridors. Through such corridors we walk cautiously. Our steps are indecisive. Because we don’t know how to read the walls of the corridors. Our insecure movements are also conditioned by what we were told about the legacy of the grooviologist stories being distributed in the fashion much like how we sometimes imagine conversation between and amongst some people: as murky whirlwinds. But, then we remember that the air moves in mysterious ways: there is a current that no smog can obscure; there is a temperature immeasurable in terms of the hot/cold dichotomy.

Ah, epistemology…  

As we walk, we sometimes feel as if the unknown territories were a reflection of what we were taught bonding was. We know the legacy of conjuring up countersymbolics and we know that postcoital-depressive-manic-phobia is nothing but a distorted version of the stigmatized, blasphemous inclination towards an unstoppable impetus to the affinities for certain individuals, contrary to the demand imposed by common wisdom “revealing” the facts behind such behavioral patterns to be: sustaining liking of the kind is limiting, causes the state of dependency, and is deceptive since it disables free choices, free communication, and free persons. But, then we remember that the key word within the rule #1 is fuckin cuddling: thus, we persistently behave contrary to the ruling rhetoric of morality whose exemplary epitomes of successful adoption of ethical patterns are streets that we won’t recognize!

Then you told me something. And I didn’t know it was you.

As we walk, sometimes we feel as if the murky whirlwinds were buildings, squares, viaducts. Such urban spaces are like channels through which city scenes flow: they feature tons of smoke being evaporated from denizens’ mouths, as if the whole city were a postindustrialist dream; muscles and tendons melting with the smell of the dripping glass from the windows while the summer nights are devouring scorching days, as if the city didn’t know seasons; mucus, vomit, and feces pouring out from gutters and are used instead of butter, jam, and/or marmalade available at gutter stations on every corner providing the denizens in need; as if the whole city didn’t know what spread proper was. But, then we remember that once, when what is now was what will have been, rain equaled sweet fruit and freedom from everything, but not for anything: just as it equals now, when what once was the future became the present.

As I was walking, my cap was a reminder of how my steps were reintegrating me good self. Mist on my face, like the stories I never told you.

We experience scarcity of greenery and we realize that the very scarcity is the reason the valleys feel like corridors. As if the communication murky whirlwinds cannot feel like oxy-factories. As if the whole city cannot reduce the production of paper and other office supplies. The production of paper seems to be a priority on the agenda of many. Many, however, find it being a priority on the agenda of many not to be of particular relevance for their own. What is more, they don’t think there is anything erroneous with the fact that it concerns them not much more than the cookie/biscuit nexus would affect one’s granny’s syntax, whose unshakable rule for the composition of a valid sentence is that it must contain the word dodgy, whose meaning oscillates depending on the words combined with it. Vøila! But, then one knows that just because some don’t think certain things are significant, it does not mean they should be credited for having the clearest of understandings of the notion of importance. Or paper. / Or syntax. / Or no-lo-gy-pho. / Or notebook. / Or buying. / Or lace . / Or semi-sec-brut-semi-sweet.

One is prone to think that the reason for stories both being told and not being told is that one knows no synonym for the word dapoltri! Manufactured confusion does not mean that one does not know one’s interlocutors and what genuine exchange is. Ill-managed desires by no means require vehement measures for their melioration; they only require more thinking.