Incomprehensibility As Metaphor

Do all stories we wish to leave behind speak of those those borne out of reflection?Does the incomprehensibility of dreams mirror the incomprehensibility of memory?

Are memories mere dissociated wisps of continuous rhythms of human life?

Are these imaginatively temporary tragedies serving as milestones on the road to expiration?

And does one’s mind comprehend the immensity of the flawed record called memory?

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Although comprehension can be said to be ‘an individual experience’, would an inability to comprehend be resonant of patterns of sparse relationships we have with memory we scatter throughout our lives?

Are personal reflections but fragmented voices and will their vulnerable status force upon them a form of ‘masking’ of personal narratives with version that efface the individual?

The precariousness of narrating such personal potentialities in a collective practice such as music and theatre remain to be explored by artists and thinkers who are determined to torch all foundations of dogmatic systems of thought.

 

Art that surveys inner worlds can often disorient, collected artefacts of memory often require such a feat of deconstructive rearrangement that what is often residual allows for new and infinite abysses of interpretation.

But should art avoid pitfalls of over-sensitivity and rather exhibit its disdain for unexploited landscapes of the mind alone? Or are such landscapes entwined with the external, preceded by joyful ambiguities of human insight?

Are all synchronised origins of art like bloodlines transmitted through audaciously crafted vocabularies that are determined by each individual throughout the surreal dream through existence (inner and outer).

Are audio-visual languages and poetics, and other figurative languages of art invented to remind us how metaphorical experiences are?

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Persistence with the ordinary creates a sensuous disquisition into the nature of the extraordinary. 

Being a direct, discreet mission of the inorganic to be entwined with the spiritual aura that pervades all organic nature, would not these contradictory urges cultivate a helplessness peopled with fears of exposing one’s soul?

Would writing about memories from memory be but a sensory quest for intellectual experiences to be distilled into fictional antipathy?

Would one be poorly compiling only narratives entangled with colonial geographies, concerned with methods of decolonial translations of said geographies, their carnal paradigms veering between extremes of despair and exhilaration?

Does comprehending these idiosyncratic tensions that exist between the private and public bonds of continuity in the the absence of drama; is that what emory-handlers aspire to reclaim?

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Trivial conversions

Urges fouling the innocent, 

Sympathetic details of personal tortures

The remoteness of words

Beyond recitations of life and periodic wanderings

And interludes of unhappiness

This morbid obsession with the fleeting, 

Roving pebbles of thoughts floating like pollen

In that air of abandon;

As an art that lost its margins

Has necessity become

An integral phenomenon of uncovering mystery?