It was unfair to split the story from history and history was the one to know.
I’ve been writing The Genesis of Language. It’s being born as I write this and I’m feeling the birth pains. It cries and I keep adding poems to it. The last one follows:
Pourquoi is the only power — I don’t remember why, but Pourquoi roots to this This is the only power: Choice vs Causality The root of choice is try, experiment, sample Although it mentions cost, it does disgust too That means no choice is final I chose you I left you So cliché... still true The root of cause: kawd-teh₂ (sounds like where in Portuguese) Accusatory, something asked for and an only one shy mention to excuse Even ‘refuse’ No story really ends
I quit titling the poems. They’re all self-contained and self-explanatory now. But they always leave something open. Language challenges the fabric of reality itself.
It’s memory. Memory is around and unchanging. No story really ends.
Now time to take my daily Seroquel or I’ll end up blue of thinking.
Love,
A