Unspoken Paradox

Unspoken… things unsaid, they pass between us. Blind to the most obvious catharsis. Like children we play afraid with the bravest savagery, the lie we tell each other through the unspoken; that we don’t know.

It is the moment, inside that moment, narrowed in we betray ourselves, our weakness. We stop the only humanity we have. Action, the enemy of reason, the enemy of mankind. In action we are lost and fall back on what we’ve surpassed, even in our own lifetime. Our ideas, the wisdom of the sages, they are no longer resonant and we all become… human.

Therein lies the paradox of humanity. But, therein too lies a truth in dialectic; or is transference? But, when we stop, turn inside… out, we again are in the paradox of our own nature; we know better.

Have you lied next to someone in bed and felt the tension? Have you failed to understand the rules of what is and what isn’t said? Have you ever been so unsure?

Lost are words. Small talk is the art of comfort; deceit. Deceit that makes easy the relations we must make. And we repeat the same small-talking to boredom, till we no longer know what we meant by the mechanical utterances we once said; a smile, a laugh and the unspoken becomes and known, hidden only to be spoken at another time to another person. And all to be comfortable again.

But, those of us who don’t play this game. I confess I play. Those who don’t live outside. They are the strangers of the moment. Failure of participation is a failure of life. Not getting it. Who doesn’t get it? Is it is us or them?

I believe that this is naive. But, in my belief have I betrayed myself. It would be naive to think that all of those who can, by virtue of their non-failure demonstrated the failure of the introvert who shouts so loudly in his head. That would be a epistemological paradox of sorts.

But, comfort with one’s time, surely that is a goal akin to comfort with oneself. Immersed in the moment and alive. Or is that banality? Again, paradox and uncertainty.

Caught on the cusp of so much juxtaposition we live in a singular conflict of two dimensions; with ourselves and with the world. It can be no other way for history will repeat one thing, it will repeat the nature of the life that it carries. And so it is history that has become redundant for there are not lessons to be learned, just rules to be found and stories to enlighten us of the natures we have today… and so we are left again… with the moment.

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