Formalisms…

…whoever loved but not at first sight?
whoever wrote but not for themself?
whoever thought but not to extend that thought into the world?

How worldly we are in 21stC literary endeavours. Our knowledge informed by myriad sources on a sliding scale from Pre-Christian to Pre-Raphaelite.

Our philosophies shaped by thinkers whose philosophies in turn became histories. Think Freud or Marx and the world is divided and ratified from the personal to the cultural. Yet both theories, like authors and G-d, are dead.

Where is the personal agency that started this post?
Its influences and purpose? Writing may be the most magical of the arts and the author’s mind and language is its straight-jacket.

Coldly, calculatedly, inculcated with a past spitting words into a future, which is past as soon as its written. Once bitten, twice shy.

Convention holds a form: an empty form filled only by the echo of a shared past.

Delight my ears with a thrush’s wings beating branches back revealing a densely hidden nest. And all might be forgotten.

Reminded the words are merely constructs and all dies. The flight into imagination and association and soon to be forgotten memories succeeds where mere words, grammars or logics fail. Read the gap. Mind the gap.

The gap gapes ope for all men.