UNBECOMING
What am I
I cannot find myself, I place myself unto myself and look around nothing that I understand,
I am not that, that is true, and I’m not that either. It seems easier to find what I’m not, But
It slashed, it cut me, it entered me, it penetrated me, it became me, it should be me, it makes me, but yet it is not me. But not because it is separate, no, it is connected, grafted, it is outside me, my property, it makes me. It makes me, so it is me, it should be me, But I cannot see it as me because I cannot find me, and where am I.
I am not in the crowd
I am not in the church
I am not in the future
I am not in the past
I am not in the market
I am not in the mountain
I am here, inside me, outside me, everywhere but me.
I cannot feel myself anywhere, but I do feel myself, I am happy when I feel myself, I can see that there is me, but what elements make me?
There is a feeling, a thought, a consciousness, it functions like a spring, it flows, and I flow from there. Yet it also not me, it binds me, constricts me, shames me, hurts me, I am not one with it and it is not one with the outside-me, it is not one with the rest. It has been categorized, it is something, it is else, different, outside the outside, even though outside is me I do not fit there, I am different, divergent and more than that.
I am more than the flow, but what else am I? I cannot see anything that I can move, that I can feel as myself in me, there is the beyond me, I despise the beyond, the meat, disgusting meat, bones, wretched bones, body hair, my enemy, I despise it all, it is not me, it is my prison, yet it is me, I find in it also pleasure and salvation, and that is me, It allows me to go beyond me, to interlock with another meat and stop being me, free myself from me. When not there it will also save me, it can be me, yet it is not fully me, it will never fully be me, it is the meat, disgusting meat. It will morph into something better, I hope, will it then be me?
I am not sure, then I become the whole, and what am I as the whole? Am I clay? Am I wrong? Am I meat-and-flow? Am I nothing? The most convincing one told me I’m a factory.
Machine-like, meat and bone and blood flows through the machine body, it produces me, it is also everything else, it is all me, it sucks, it is horrible. I despise it and I love it.
But I do not fit, everything does not fit in itself it breaks and it cuts and it bleeds and it falls and it bites and it crushes and it goes away.
I am inappropriate.
I am beyond I, not just beyond me, I am the sun, I am the grass, I am the wall, I am the semen, I am the blood, I am the bone, I am the sky, I am it, I am her, I am him, I am them, I am nothing. Nothing. Creative. I am nothing at all. With this I’m free to be everything, burst forth like an orgasm onto the world. That is me. I go on, I stop, I go on, I stop, I go on, I stop.
And then die. And then I’m nothing, no longer me.