kemasminda

  Jason Padgett T o try to resolve the paradox, one might point out that language functions not only as a medium for expressing thoughts but also as a means for developing them. The act of expression often exposes gaps and sloppiness in our thinking: ideas, once spoken or written down, can turn out to be less compelling than they first appeared. As soon as we try to articulate these thoughts, our confusion becomes apparent. This common experience could naively tempt one to think that, in all cases where articulation is hard, the formulations that we eventually arrive at add something new to our initial thoughts. Clarifying what we think, according to this view, might not lie in expressing our settled thought but in making up our minds about an issue, by constructing a thought that is more definite and coherent. If our goal is not to produce words that match our thought, there doesn’t appear to be a paradox in accounting for how we manage to recognise the correct words to voice our ...

 1: Becoming Aware of Learning Processes   Is this a place of learning, or is this my extended bedroom? The time is 7 am. I stretch myself out on 3 chairs, my head buzzing with chatter and spikes with the occasional squeal of laughter. The intercom drones out upbeat tunes, spitting static and morning salutations, while I try, unsuccessfully to categorise it as one of the many background noises.  Is this a place of learning, or is this a place of mere tomfoolery? 1 pm curls around the corner of the clock, and I smell the pungent odour of sweat, of leftover fries and chilli wafting in the thick air. My head feels heavy again. Wait, what topics did I cover for the past year? This emptiness I feel is artificial. The dirty river within my body clogs with clumps of dirt and hair, flotsam floating down with the dross and dregs of half-drunk tea and half-chewed gum. I remember dozing off, the captain of my ship rolling her into a pillow of fog amidst a trail of unbecoming ...

Bear with me. When I look into the mirror to see the murky brownness swimming in my eyes,  I remember you, my faithful friend.  I remember the day you died.  .... Before your death, we lived in a whitewashed house, infringing on the land governed by nature.  I recall the humid afternoon I chanced upon you when you stumbled into my garden buzzing with flies, covered in grime, and allured me with the shine in your eyes.  I embraced you, I named you. From then on I was yours, and Bear, you became mine. Bear. Bear, I remember. I remember how full of life you were. Why, in my mind's eye I can still see you running head lopsided with your little pink tongue out, chasing your tail in the garden we used to share, weaving between the stalks of sugar cane and red pineapples.  I still close my eyes to feel the sheen of your soft, soft fur and hear your joyful calls to me from distant fern trees swaying by the edge of the forest. You were living the life.  ..... ...

I feel a disturbance inside me. From time to time, my pen drops from my fingertips and a pure, primal fissure of heat breaks loose, emanating a malicious stench that pours out from my pores.  During these episodes, rage builds up the pressure within, bloating, coalescing, making my skin bead with sweat. I struggle, I squeeze, and yet, I discover again that the inkwell inside me is bone dry. And I know the reason why.  I am at war with myself. A war, where one party feeds the sloth, and the another, ambition.  In a cliché storyline, there would be a clear divider of the good and the bad, but honestly, I feel as if I'm shortchanged here. In both circumstances, the victor remains a threat to the overall well-being of this sacred temple, by laying waste to potential or worse, by castrating the values that tie in to community.  Maybe I've been burning the wrong oil in my lamp. Maybe, while trudging onwards into the night, I've inhaled without regard the noxious fumes from...

  I've. left this mask here. To ponder on his existence. How did he survive the warring conflicts that took place in the hidden depths? -how did he remain in seraphic calm? Huh. maybe he was never a part of the whole. No matter how hard he tried to assimilate. Or, maybe, he never tried at all. He doesn't possess the capacity for change anyway.   I'm angry that he has the understanding of expansion, but doesn't have the capacity to expand. The emotion- is set. The crinkled eyes- are hollow. The mask-is still a mask. Until it lives again-by the will of the Host. created by _The man with many disguises.  he, the falsifier who wears different bodies to different places.

  iman_kksih I tell you now. I do not create what i make. The forms already exist_ hidden in the sand.. It's only a prerequisite of the cognitive realm__poorly fromed into a barely recognizable physical shape. I do not know. The  #hollowbody  resonates its tune. I am but a vessel to the abundance of meaning and conflicting entities of mind / and we are lucky that we get to briefly capture these hallucinative forms-and admire them for a time___before they are washed away by the incessant waves. Better to witness a beginning and an end than to see none at all. The creation itself knows/ to be or not to be__or it may know not, it lies there, an empty shell, oblivious to all existence once the Breath has left it: it only awaits its second death. It only sees lesser than its creator. It only lives a half life- it will never be an equal being. ------------- ¿So says the creator, alone in a world of illusion.

Screams. Immersed in its longing for a  #resurgence  of youth__but has it ever known youth? Who does the city pine for? Does it even know what it wants? It does not care. Not remotely. It remembers the imprints in its history; aeons of memories wrought on its stone, long before it was crafted and weathered atop sky_scraping structures. The life of the inhabited city lasts not, even its death will scarcely be recalled. The beauty of the non-life will manifest, as always. The beauty of an iron stability will descend upon the city. Soon. #Dust  will be dust. Stone will become sacred again. And the soil will feed on the city remnants. Today, those who visited the city and foolishly claimed it home, have alighted to the place they were too afraid to comprehend, and yet belonged. Lies. Fabrications. Manipulation. It all becomes a masterful illustration___and yet, it all remains to be an illusion. The city is not your home. The city will last. You will not. Wake.

  We. can be named as parasitic habits, deconstructing the peace with spindly constructions and sowing discord into the ill_ gained ground beaneath a myriad of dirty feet. A drastic fever consumes the tiny clay constructs, and they shatter, as they always do. Unfortunately, the cracked ceramic parasites have never learnt nor known true death. Smoky Vengeance and hatred leaks from the cracks in their plates, spiraling downwards, heavily tainted with a lust for life. The pungeant emissions cover the soil, contaminating what was left of it. The World_Being shudders with another bout of chronic fever. Illwill. Thunderous groans and creaks. Splintering and spliced parasites. He. Dies. There will be a sad beauty in His death.

  Stripped bare. a feeling of nakedness After realizing the vastness of the void So close So dangerous And yet so enticing Some of us Want to rend And some are giddy to be torn into pieces. But most of us Never did try Never did allow such acts Never did succumb To such Joy. ?

  iman_kksih. The Sabbath comes. For six continuous weeks The weeds have grown Crackling its way like rogue tongues of flame, swath upon swath, choking the undergrowth. The air within the entwining bush had long turned heavy, damp and stale from the rot in the roots barely seen___beneath the scraggly branches ___brittle with age. Curls of raw heat crept up the ragged pile of sticks. And then there were two Noses without sense nor scent They came to rest, Lulled by the sinking sun. A feathered head arose High enough away from the fermentation below. And then there were two Contented by their roost Basking in the warmth Above the rising bed of death.

  A quiet place Lit umbrella Empty at times At others Tripping with wires White light Once Bright burning flavescent Yellow and crumpling in its notes. Then the umbrella folds. Another takes its place. Life in the Dark Room.

  *The rain of Deafening silence* . 人有悲欢离合， 月有阴晴圆缺， 此事古难全。 . Dear brother of arms Goodnight. Goodbye, though I long for you still . When will our hearts be silent? When will we outgrow sorrow? I know. I know. I know. . I Pray for journey mercy. As all hell hails down with us. The final rain for Peace, as we know it. . Together We are united in the spirit of the waxing moon.