There
is a certain inconceivability that pushes at my consciousness: a challenge, a
demand – a constant quality.
Budapest
is rumbling with student protests, but the drones of discontent fail to reach
me.
This
silence is a loaded one though, I should think. It is a wail, sometimes, a
roar.
Someone
once said, the suffering ones are without voices. Give them bread – give them
words. Everything outside the discourse, by definition, cannot be conceived of;
therefore, wails become real when are moulded into linguistic structures, given
meaning, provided author and audience, congruity with the cultural history and
the social narrative.
I
hear many stories though. And stories beget stories beget narratives from which
discourses (lives) evolve. There are some about fragmented pasts; others about
resettlement and restitution. Also: fathers and sons, brothers, lovers. Man is
a pair of limbs, broken bones, a huge existential void, and Meaning always residing just out of
grasp.
I
have nothing to add to the margins. Just that: right, maybe it’s true and
everyone suffers a bit, and let us "convert neurotic suffering into an acceptance of everyday common misery".
But,
there is this,
My
dearest Sixsmith;
Unfinished
is maybe just evolving and there is space for the unspoken.
I
don’t know much about gods, but I reckon that ineffability is no joke.
- Thuy
No comments:
Post a Comment