Norwegian Dreamworks 4

January 7th, 2015

If you ever catch yourself trying to put the endlessly  proliferating ideas, visions, futures into words, you know the overwhelming feeling of being thrust into the middle of things you are too slow to grab, grasp, get hold of. Things you come to know to be faster than writing. You come to know something that is called chaos or multiplicity of worlds.
Worlds, in which infinite number of yous try to understand infinite ways of ever abounding other infinities, which might differ only by the length of one nail.
There are infinite worlds alike, different and same. Once you know this, all writing seems like always too late. In  all actual worlds.
You feel remorse of all yous feeling it for you.
Indefinite multiplicity of slight differences, always here and everywhere, now and ever. Unframed by past and future. Me going out of myself to give birth to many more. Infinity of Ones, one after one, by sheer power of being seperate, thus already minusculely different. Ones that don’t add up. That share no other genuine property, except for being one in the different. The world in which another Borges does not commit an error of ornithological proof of God’s existence. In which Borges is a pigeon – or he thinks he is – in such way thinking of yet another world.
One can keep calm, for it’s all meaningless, one can assume the personality of the sane madman thinking nothing, one can elaborate the infinite ways and times he celebrates.
One can write, paint, play, always and never too late, for each instance is resumed and restarted whenever new worlds are born in the space and time without measure or signature.
I have my nails cut and long at the same time in different places, I know of this in all of them. I also have my nails long and cut in the same place at different times, being, thus, at least in two places at once and older than myself at the moment of my birth.
Art makes no sense of meaning. It’s its work. It makes sense of rendering things meaningless. It makes senselessness mean. It doubles each and every meaning the world has gave birth to, rendering it free, making it mean nothing and contail all of the sense.
It doubles all sense, rendering it full, making it sense nothing, feel the meaning of nothing.
Infinity of Ones’ Ghosts, Infinity of Ghosts of Infinity of Ones. Each and every differing from all others in the same rhythm of and between being born and forgotten.
Ad absurdum ad infinitum.
Platotle Aristo!

I am not and at times in and between these worlds.
Fornever, noeverywhere. In my dreamy melancholy.

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