will the momentum of puberty’s paroxysms suffice to persist in the investigation? and truth and wisdom – arbitrary, spacious, elusive and implacable? is there consolation? how to endure the tears from the stinging light, the tears of epiphany…the bliss of grasping, even for a moment, a meaning, or an idea, but not consciously, but with the soul and mind and senses.

truth demanded many lives, of men worthier than i. and with my social suicide I join them, if only thus – still meek and doubting, fearful and selfish, still glancing back nostalgically, at the other life – so snug, so peaceful. and so false.

mystery. magic. puzzles – riddles. secrets. arcane or prosaic. like the horizon: blue-sky, taunting and intimidating. the unknown. the unknowable, yet explained and evident. although I understand, I nonetheless acknowledge its deceitful existence – there it is, I see it and how, then, I ask increduously, can it be a concept, just an idea and not a thing – this, that I see. imperceptibly moving forward, like time – it too, just a figment.

or love. like horizon’s edge, endlessly stretched (like giacometti’s limb) between me and that life, the mirage is measured into existence, as a formula, or seized by a stanza: there – you point at it – there, can you not see it? can you not believe in it? and then, reason, with a slightly raised eyebrow, strokes my childish head with its pitiless palm and says: no, dear child, it is only an illusion.