Ign rantces.

I've been obsessed with the idea of Illusion for the past few weeks. Wait. That's incorrect. I've been in rapture since childhood; I've collected them in my pension, recollecting upon them in all their glorious enchantment- until age, until a reunderstanding forces them into the claws of the reality- forcing me to give them up.



Disenchanted. I'm a romance of chemicals exchanging this and that excitement until I no longer see the allusive behavior that captured me in the beginning. Sure. Eliot would say that my inability to see the rapture is the end reflecting upon the past-bringing me to the beginning once again- but enlightened, able to understand!



but isn't it all really a trick of the card? the tongue of discussion masking itself in words that one will understand and another not?



Isn't that the beauty of Illusion?



We've been speaking of Dolce Domum- of Coming to understand through the adventure we suffered to begin with- but I don't really want to move on to this topic.



Sure it applies to Illusions.



The only way to see an illusion is to see it's disillusion- to see it from the beginning from a different understanding.



But my problem is with the "process too complicated to explain". We say it's too complicated to explain- but If I'm to be a writer, to be a major writer, mustn't I understand the complications that I am to bring forth? How Am I to enchant?



I've torn through Dr. Faustus.

Torn Through the Tempest.

Torn through myself.

Torn through my writing.



I've come across epiphanies and discarded them moments later.



I've understood.



Then understood we'd never understand.



I've recollected



Then reorganized.



I've burned books,

and drowned books,



Yet I've yet to here

the sound of depths

in my writings.



I'm Faustus staring at Prospero

wondering what is his wonder

while Shakespeare shakes his speare-

broken'n half- waterlogged

n' soaking fairies!



And yet I see only the allusions of words

and the illusions of his tempest.

Or is it his Tempest?

No, it's his tempest!

Know it's his tempest,-

Alas we'll never KNOW!



I'm a wreck of intellect!

Standing under loss

waiting its weight!



I've given up the Illusions 'ledges,'

I have given to no rants!

I am g'en No rants!

I am g'enrance!

Ignorance! Ah! I am!



I've typed up ramblings

and depyt them back,



I've given into Logic,

saying logic has no chance

and, having given logic its chance,

taken my belief in't back-



Thus then have I started

the way of not knowing

to start my way back?