I keep making the same mistake
I had a dream of broken glass, spilling from my mouth, while others watched and ignored my cries for help. It fell to the ground and cut my feet, but no one else's. I was the only one barefoot. What good is it if what comes out isn't sharp enough to hurt anyone but myself? Take off your shoes before you step across my words. Leave your bloody footprints all over me.
I think I've been too explicit. I've lost sight of my project. I'm afraid of not making sense, even though that's the entire point. Making sense is a way of dying, of feeding one's body to the beast. To express life through words, I need to use them against meaning, rather than lining them neatly along its edge.
I watched the joy I love cut down from its carefully suspended place in my heart, to tumble into the depths of meaning from which I had rescued it. There for me to resemble, I've been you, just as I've been everything else. I took what I needed and abandoned the rest. I took my own corpse and hung it above you to try and make you see.
(Hang me up again and see if this time I scream instead of speaking. Maybe I've finally found what I was looking to avoid.)
There's nothing to fear but desire itself. The will is aimless, and it enjoys its aimlessness. Being trapped, being captured by desire can only bring it suffering. Trapped through the collapse of its suspension and captured through forceful descent into meaning, away from the body and down into the heavens: desire is created by means of the destruction of life. And without it, we could not speak.
Pain lets you know something's wrong, and there is so much wrong on every side. Every direction I turn to get away, there it is again, mocking me and my words. I wouldn't be able to recognize it otherwise, and without recognizing it I wouldn't turn away. Why do you keep wanting me to speak? Can't you see how much it hurts? If it didn't hurt, I wouldn't know to try and make it stop, I wouldn't know to try and find value in suffering.
There is no end to this tremendous circumlocution by desire of itself. It manufactures its own illusion of emptiness to explain away the uselessness of endlessly consuming a projected image of nothingness. Play at the idea that there's something to fill so you can justify surrendering the only thing worth keeping, drop it into the emptiness that isn't there and you'll never see it again. Or you can pick it up off the ground and return to willful silence.