Castles in the Sky

On the Musing of a Smile

Does the smile make him bloom, or does he his smile?

He is the owner of the smile, but not the creator; he is the carrier, but not the originator. Could the smile be anything but, if it weren't for him? Is the smile to bloom the same, or at all, if he weren't behind it all? Is he to be himself, without the smile, without the power to make it bloom? If it weren't him who's making the smile bloom, who'd it be? And would the fact, that many could, render him any less entitled to it? But if he doesn't smile, who should? If he weren't the bearer, who else? If the smile didn't complete him, what could?

And if it weren't for him, what'd a smile be, at all?

- If I were any more reckless than I already am, I would have thought that I had the answers. I would have thought I was so close that I could disturb the surface tension of their formation. For I audaciously dream that they are at the edge of my mind, the tip of my fingers... but on this, I think my ink has dried before it could be dripping, and the bodies that I could lend to a thought are insubstantial like a whim. What else could be done? A sketch of this and that: the homunculus's homunculus, and all of their brothers; a circle and a larger one and a smaller one that goes on and on, until a confusion settles everything. Like the lines of words that say nothing, could say nothing; they comment on their own futility. What stupidity. Curious, closer still am I to defeating the purpose through its attempted fulfillment; I celebrate the clarity nonetheless, like it is the last thing I have in my possession. Questions are worn as masks; the mystique stays in the mirror - and so, I'm here to render true the mirror, and its harboured seeming. What I'm saying lies in absolute ambiguity.

13 July 2016, L.B.