words

I walked into the contryside today.


Its like motobikes running the highways along fields of high-grasses. Dry brown grasses static in the idle air. And the sky above shining like a magnificent display of light. Pale, but confirmed whirling cloudes were giving a mute tumult to the crepuscular scene. The last rays of the hidden sun were still peeking over the elevated woodly horizons. The trees were just dark, merging into eachother silhuettes.  It was an image of swinging moods. A rare image of reality unveiling itself in hyperrealism, chopped into a amorphuous puzzle pieces. Each piece could be grasp at the time, because there wasn't a central piece, nor a point of interest. The sum of all parts was so overwhelming, that it made it very difficult to be focused on a particular fragment. Then the engine stopped. And it felt good. It felt like being alone, bemused with the gist of such rendition of the landscape. And there was sense of broaden possibility. I could think about anything and I could go deeper. That quietness of the marvellous phenomenon was pushing me into the abyss, while I was trying to grasp fragments of words and letters, and to deconstruct them to the very linear shape.


Words are made of letters and letters are made of infinite linear shapes which interescting eachother, leaving me with higlighted segments of a the infintely long lines. I can perceive only what is highlighted and I can only grasp thatportion of a line. The reality becomes then more clear and appereance or phenomenon were only human atributes. It becomes obvious to be to ascertain that the reality is self-revealing, but its apprehension is controlled by the my natural limits of understanding.


How can  I describe such magnificent display of light otherwise than in vague and subjective epithetetes like the one that has just been reiterated? I could never put into words in an all encompasive descriptive manner such a scenerey. Alphabetically speaking, the letters are deconstructionist symbols for visible reality, while their fonetics is just audible reality of their entire sound spectrum.  I even believe that people educated and shaped into societies whose fashion of speaking imply more extended use of subjective and vague epithetes tend to become less preocupied with practical issues. It is like comparing the hyperbolic literary image of an epic character to a cooking book. They both deal with some virtue and art, but one is descriptive and appealing to the subjectiveness, to the rather irrational and non-mathematical whereas the other appeals to the rational.  Similarly, the landscape when looked at entirely  charmed my irrational, whilst looked piece by piece seemed rather to solicit my mind. Beauty can be deconstructed to more basic forms, but its entirety appears even more concelead when it is devided into limited vistas. Thus, there must be nonvisual elements which excite the soul. Is it legimate to ask myself whether or not it exists a  sub-message into a dimension which we can perceive but we can feel? Might it be delussional to think that what the eyes meet does not inflict a soul sensation; that it might be only through faulty and precipitating logic that through the sight our soul can be somehow inclinated? I have done quickly inferrences and, due to incomplete information I achieved a satisfactory, but unrealistic answer.