Putting words together, rearranging them, pulling them apart ... same old story redone in another way ...

Putting words together, rearranging them, pulling them apart.  Searching for the words to say it.  Though the words stay the same, they seem to change.  Too many words, but not enough words.   So many who believe they know how to teach the words, but do not.  So many who believe they get the words, but do not.  So many who fraudulently, more or less, earn a living from the words.  Reality is, perhaps, too complex to be reduced to words.  Try describing the flocking behaviour of starlings - words break up, reform, break up, but eh representation does not even approach reality.  what I am saying is all there is left today.  I do not quite believe in what I am saying.  Shame on me.  I imagined that I was in what the gestalt people call the fertile void, of some such place or state, out of which new patterns, new orders, might emerge, new ways of seeing and otherwise sensing and saying it might image. But I do not believe in metaphors. Others do, it seems, which makes me mad.  And what do the pseudo-scientific bullshit merchants know of it anyway.  Nothing much, truth be told.  Reduced to a marginal subsistence, I am sailing off the edge of the world, which has not edge.  There is noting else to do.  It is all there is left to do.  I don't quite believe in what I am doing.  Shame on me.  She, who thought herself understanding, said to me, with surprising  and irritating  frequency; 'I just feel I am owed an explanation.'  Ah, debts, debts, debts, I did not think debts had undone so many.  Often the statement seemed out of any context, with no specific requiring explanation.  Was she actually asking me for an explanation?  Was she really expecting one?  Or was she speaking aloud, in my vague proximate presence, but expecting nothing much in return?  Speaking aloud, perhaps, to no one in particular, her words took her back to her adolescent bedroom, where she stared the wall, an irregular shape, made of regular forms, a complexity compounded of many simples, complex beyond words, beyond explanation.  Like shapes in dreams we drift through the years, random, planless, our forethought in virtual chains, beyond explanation, perhaps.   But I do not believe in similes.  Others do, it seems, which makes me mad.  Shame on me.  Though the shape of the wall stays the same, it seems to change.  Stuck in the moment.  The neverending, neverbeginning instant.  Though the moment stays the same, it seems to change.  A succession of moments.  Just one thing after another.  Perhaps.  A mad parade of disconnected instants.  Maybe.  Searching for the words to say it.  Every fresh attempt is a new start and a new kind of failure.  What I am saying is all there is left to say.  I don not quite believe in what I am saying. Shame on me.  The words stay the same, but seem to change.  Perhaps mathematics, as the mathematicians maintain, is the real language of nature. but mathematics, too, is reduced nature.  Nature is - all in all.  Mathematics cannot adequately represent the flocking behaviour of starlings, matter of factly.  This is never [quite] that.  The unities break up so that new unities are ever being formed from the constituent part of the previous unities.  One way of seeing it.  One way of saying it.  Try putting that in numbers or formulae.  Searching for ways to see it.  Though it stays the same, it seems to change.  Though it changes, it seems to stay the same.  I do not quite believe in what I am seeing.  I do not quite believe in what I am saying.  Shame on me.  I see the end [of sorts] of everything in a single lost hair that was once on her head.  I see hope in a shabby seeming love story.  When nothing more seems possible, and everything seems next to nothingness, she recurs, seeming to stand for many things, and all manner of things, though not necessarily everything, seems possible, however briefly.  some hope.  No unity persists, until the final stasis, when everything has fallen apart.  It is dark there.  It is cold there.  A cosmic ocean of equidistant isolate particle fragments, which no longer interact.  Fear death by symmetry.  Universal death, effectively, but no end:  the fragments go on drifting ever further apart forever.  Unity of sorts - at the largest level [everything] a t at the smallest [isolated fragments of ultimately reduced matter].  But not a blissful final harmony. . A complete separation of all that you once held dear, in effect.  How much is your transient, superficial worldly riches worth there, my dears?  Nothing much.  Just dead, dark, cold, distant, ever widening, fragmentation.  Ho hum.  Who ever wanted to be a millionaire?  Of all the vainest of aspirations.  Hum ho.  Still, enjoy it while you can, and all that.  And there is always ho0e in uncertainty.  And perhaps only hope in uncertainty.  The cosmologists might be wrong, and being limited humans, probably are.  Some hope.  The despair I can cope with, it is that hope that gets to me - it seems only to lead to fresh disappointments.  No one knows. No one has anything than the vaguest idea of the true pattern of reality.  No one has the words to say it, or any other adequate way of representing it.  And yet so many are so full of their own words, and so eager to spread them widely.  Superficial ego-blasting in the name of truth telling.  Shame on you.   Random walks through time and space - or space-time, or time-space, or it.  Likes shapes in dreams we wander though it.  Though the shapes stay the same, they seem to change.  Every day, every moment even, we walk randomly through ourselves.  Looking back, I seem to blend into myself, to become a topological monster, a monster of infinite loss, a monster of shameful disgrace - or just another human.  Though the life stays the same, it seems to change.  Though the life seems to change, it stays the same.  Though the life stories seem static and tedious, they change.  Narratives form, break up, reform.  Which is the true one?  Rhetoric is more convincing that is should be.  Metaphors are all too literally believable.  Similes are like too readily convincing to those who want to believe in them.  Strands of fact can be all too easily rearranged into new patterns.  Even the facts change.  Freeze the scene for the camera, please.  Smiles, or tears, or whatever else you are looking for, are inevitable.  But there is always a limit to resolution.  Eventually every detail becomes lured.  Small changing details in a vast changing landseaskyscape.  Change the perspective and the details seem all important.  Change it again and they shrink to next to nothing. I do not believe in what I am seeing.  Shame on me.