2017 be good

2017:  A note just to myself.
Myself: an entity that lives inside this body, inside this mind. An essence that sometimes I reach. A certain something that that does not change, is inexplicable, indescribable, and yet always recognized. If I recognize it, what is it? I if recognize it, who am I? Who am I that recognizes who I am? What kernel is this? What house of mirrors am I? What breakdown of language? What merging of subject and object? What truth?
What aims do I have for 2017 for this mirrored image to reach when there is no reach, no reality, no one who tracks winner, losers. What more than to exist? Many many words there are in which to frolic, words which weave fabrics so delightful in which to lie. But what indeed is to be done? What, except to live. From where except this wordlessness to come? Do I need a set of fresh resolutions against which to make my aimless progress? What conflicts are there to avoid when, from conflict, comes resolution and which resolutions hoist me onto the ever-new shoulders of God from which I see.
Let us return to the question: who am I who sees myself? Who deep down in that kernel? Am I DNA itself, the part of the DNA that says: alive, alive! Awake! Do it! Awaken! See! Inhale and, with that inhalation, exhale, completely, out, out, out only to repeat, repeat, repeat. What is this, this life? What is it? would questions ever cease? Could there be an answer? No! there cannot be an answer, so questions can cease—or live on. It does not matter. Questions, answers—they are nothing but breath, steps, awakenings, passings, livings. There is no need to answer them, although some of them can be enjoyed. None needs to bother us. Turn them over, open them up, massage away their tensions, love away their hurts, release their pains, laugh with them and challenge them to find love.
Another way to put it: why bother to try to unravel Jacques Lacan when what he does is try to pin down language like a dead butterfly. Jacques, Jacques: stop! Cease and desist. It cannot be done. The moment of life, of language-giving, cannot ever be but the birth of birth, the song of song, the beauty of beauty. No academic analysis can be still, be movement, be life. No one analysis can convey the truth of every living form, every snowflake, every biography, every question. Your answer cannot be my answer. No answer can be the answer. To ask is to stop, and there is no stopping. The years come, and they come and they come.

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