Thoughts are incomplete as incomplete life is. Life is unfinished as unfinished thought is. Everything which has life and which born here as blank is budding to complete the incomplete cycle of life. The live and inert has no disparity there. They come here to break the prolonged silence before birth. Emanation of birth is unrecognizable to who is born, who comes here comatose by silence, is blank unconscious and unaware about everything existed. Birth is blurry as blurry death is. Death is uncertain as uncertain life is. One meets another in a blurry junction, beclouded by the snippet existence, where birth embrace death with its penance that it is yet incomplete, that it has to do a lot before its erosion.
That’s why poetry exists; poetical wording exists to tell something about the quandary of appear-and-disappear of everything in the world.
The junction is blurry where death swills birth with its corrosion smile that destruction is yet not over, that it is incomplete, wine-cask is ready to drips the incomplete over-and-again. Nothing is completed and passed over by birth and death. What happens there is an endless cycle of repetition where existence and existent return to the junction as blank unconscious. They return here to write down the unfinished memoir in a blank slate, which may filled up by next or might be finished never at all.
This is the junction where incompleteness might be the definition of everything that is born here, sprouts here, evaporates or vanished here. Vanished in where? The answer is incomplete, comatose by beclouded darkness, possessed by unrecognizable Looney tunes. The pain of existence is that, existence doesn’t know from where it begins and where the end could be. Reversely, the pleasure of existence is there, it goes on life without knowing the beginning or end. The paradox is also there; it is longing in thirst to know the beginning and ending of everything. That means existence is eager to fill the blank slate before melting into the wine-cask, before dripping again to the cask.
This is life,… written by living, saddled by love, demented by desire, invaded by libido, ornamented by survival, confused by contradiction, melancholic by solitude, unfinished by death and incomplete by birth. Existence encompassed by all stuff, where poet is the essential part of this finished and yet not finished paradox.
Poet is the part of this possible and yet not possible thought-game, where certainty collapsed due to uncertainty, and after sudden moments of pause it back to the certainty. Existence is repercussion of uncertainly certain life, a weaver of unknowable knowing, a copywriter of knowable vivid darkness and follower of unknowable nebulous darkness. Poet is the surname of metaphorical existent that is further true than any poetical words. Does poet write any metaphor indeed? Or else metaphor per se writes poet’s existence in poetry? We praised poet for rhetorical metaphors, albeit game of existence is autonomously rhetorical than any poetic wording. He who knows or realizes this he does nothing special there except to follow the rhetoric… for why?
Answer is simple here; he follows the rhetoric for sake of his existential validity in the grand narrative of budding and erosion, to justify the certainty that he is certain here at some extent, to console his inner self that he is not traveling in illusion and not everything is delusional here. The objective of poet is simple,… to touch to feel and perceive it into the mind, and that is the wording of poetical beauty.
However, game is not over there. Despite his hardship succession, the justification of certainty or confirmation of existential validity and fate appeared paradoxical to the poet, in where he quests for many but gets a little in return. That’s why poetry exists; poetical wording existed to tell something about the quandary of appear-and-disappear in the world.
The pain of existence is that, existence doesn’t know from where it begins and where the end could be. Reversely, the pleasure of existence is there, it goes on life without knowing the beginning or end.
Words are germinated here to sketch the blank slate by unlimited questions, unfinished desire, unknown feeling and yet incomplete action through incomplete words. Poet’s unfinished thought realized itself yet unspecified, unnamed, unsigned and untested unquote debunks the certainly uncertain mystery of everything. That is perhaps the groundbreaking beauty of any poetical reading or quest.