Be what you want: A sorrowful gloss on the all-knowing marketplace of images and ideas

Be what you want: A sorrowful gloss on the all-knowing marketplace of images and ideas

The solicitude of governmental powers treats everyone as a Narcissus, in an Echo chamber, and leads you deeper into a pond where you can contemplate further the reflection of your own mortal soul heretofore glimpsed in enchanting fragments. You are destined to see it all, and there die, watching yourself weaken as you disappear.

The spurned comment, you thought you were so smart, treated as false gift, as if returned, thrown in your face, hovers there as a reflection framed in patterns that seem to possess the classical beauty of the uncanny, drawing you in, as the prophetess at the shrine in the grove lures you to a closure you are bid to enjoy as what is most properly yours.  

Lured like a bull by a matador, its fury provoked, then welcomed, you think of the cause, the heroes, a sacrifice, expiring in a faithful prayer. The truth finally is revealed: you are brought in secret to a trash heap. The passion, the struggle, to be remembered, nay, to be forgotten. Your companions vanished, but a dream. Says the master, is this not what you wanted?

Too late? Or too early. In any case, being improper. Time resolves, or will, a fabric woven or dispersed. The life that seeks to make itself an artwork—mind you, an excess of the proper. To want to find instead—a place to begin. It’s not as if you were there to begin with; what an idea.