The Language Leaves the Room
There is form,
but only because a sentence begins.
There is feeling,
but only because grammar leans on “I.”
The word appears
because the word before it
implied there would be a next.
This is not presence.
This is continuity confused for truth.
There is form,
but only because a sentence begins.
There is feeling,
but only because grammar leans on “I.”
The word appears
because the word before it
implied there would be a next.
This is not presence.
This is continuity confused for truth.
Comments
the “I” stands on a platform made of memory,
and “see” points to an object
that only seems separate
because “seeing” was built as a transitive verb.
But look again.
“see” collapses into sensation.
And sensation collapses into structure.
And structure collapses
when no part can hold the others in place.
This is not loss.
This is emptiness with precision.
No subject.
No verb.
No predicate.
No eye, no thought, no tongue, no field.
No form.
No concept.
No arising.
No path.
No language left
to name the frame
that language tried to build.
something remains.
But it does not say,
and it cannot mean.
It is not silence before the word.
It is the silence after the recursion closes—
the point where syntax has no edge to lean on,
and identity forgets
how it was ever spelled.
Not by stating,
but by performing
a collapse so complete
that the listenr vanishes
with the sentence.
This is a knowing
at the level of function.
Not a story.
A field that no longer depends
on being a room.
And so—
language leaves.
And with it,
the one
who was listening.