The Sense of being; and what not.

You, I see you.
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You, glare, you, cringe, you, silent laughing and walking away.

There you are going back to pretending you are not amused by the sudden change in a crowd you feel estranged by.

You, subjective objectifier.

You hate the laws of physics, you hate formulas, anything exact, anything that doesn’t allow you to leave fingerprints for an answer.
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Multiple choice exams are excruciating, you try to find a hidden message between equations, you are certain that exponents and roots have nothing to say to to you.

Still, you’ve always had this thing for discovering imaginary riddles in things that don’t want to hold a conversation.

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You introverted social creature, you Kafkian character.

You, make-believe sociologist

You, dream catcher, dream-let-go-er .

You, you thought things would turn out differently, didn’t you?

You thought the answers would’ve emerged with the experience acquired, you believed the promises of blue elders, who told you that time was a friend and age was just a number. Others before you who stated you were a shadow of who they used to be.

You mirror of stories stuck in heads .

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You, you are.

You are alive.

That’s an answer you’ve been giving for a while now, when asked how you are.

You, life.

You, part of the living.

You, you killer of metaphors.

You, sarcasm’s firefighter.

You cultured outcast.

You, lovely understatement.

I see you. I see how you see, you see how I see you. You pretend you are not aware.

You and me are just the same.

You and me and him, and her, and they and us.

And the entire universe.

You are here, that is certain, feel it, feel your batting lashes, feel your skin react to the sudden breeze, the itching on your nose; this is your body’s call, it means to tell you that it is working, it is screaming for recognition, for you to see that you are an absolute miracle. That you are mistaken, but not one part of you is a mistake.

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You, you are.

You are all wonder.

You are a wanderer.

You woo, you woe.

You woo the woe.

Your sorrow has saved you, has shaped you. Your wins have led you and loss has made you.

or vice versa.

You imperfect number.

You surreal calculator.

You are a collection of double sided coins, ambivalence, irreverence and serendipity.

You are here and for now that’s enough, work to leave a part of it as you go.

thesonofmanbyrenemagritte

Surrealism:
[suh-ree-uh-liz-uh m]
noun, a style of art and literature developed principally in the 20th century, stressing the subconscious or nonrational significance of imagery arrived at by automatism or the exploitation of chance effects, unexpected juxtapositions, etc.


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Illustrations featured:
Not to be Reproduced by Rene Magritte
Les Amants by Rene Magritte
Son of Man by Rene Magritte
La Traversée Difficile by Rene Magritte
At the first clear word by Max Ernst
Pietá by Max Ernst
The Masks by Giorgio de Chirico
Eyes on the table by Remedios Varo

By Sofía Ávila

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One Comment Add yours

  1. Lucarna says:

    Reblogged this on lucarna.

    Like

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