Philosophy and fiction, it began with an attempt to negate the existence of philosophy.
Is it a dead cat? Will it come up again and again with nine lives ? How will we posit philosophy in the quest for knowledge. Is it always congruent with the inquisitiveness to find what is truth? For sure, this question can never be philosophical in life. It can be ideological but I will have to rational in that attempt.
Coining an allegory of a dead cat with philosophy, one of my psycho-analytic encounter is described as below.
A corridor of myself
A window where I hug and hung my shadows
I am there again
With cats dead and with nine lives
Cat in his selfish tone said ...
I am born again to die
She smiled and murmured
A dead cat is just born again
She saw those words in a dream. Voices that speak themselves. Words into voices, thoughts bleeding themselves. Words into shells and snails of mind. As if they are leaving their ocean and hunting her down.
A dead cat, neither black nor white; it is having a mesh of letters all around its body. Those words look engraved in its body. It smiled her through eyes and cried aloud through its lovely small cheeks.
Again and again, she is seeing dead cats in her dream. She saw them while standing in the long queues, sitting in lone gardens, walking up and down irritating stairs and so on. Dreams that she see awakened. She is not sure what is real and what is not. I would like to omit the expression surreal because it has some tint of real in it. Now she begins to ask how can she see a dead cat and a stream of words together in a dream. She ask herself is dreaming an act or an act of denying truth or not at all an act in itself? She took a pen and started hunting down the dead cats and paper tigers.
In the nakedness of truth
A lie is born
In the weakness of my genes
My death cells are born
In the hatred of my body
My mind begins to bleed
In the cavities of my heart
My flowers begins to bloom
In the boundaries of my lies
She laughed aloud and smiled at those shadows. She tore those papers into pieces. She wed the thickness of her summer blanket and started her cat race. In the dilating moments of her eyelids, those cats vanished in dream planes. Into their own space times ...
Is it a dead cat? Will it come up again and again with nine lives ? How will we posit philosophy in the quest for knowledge. Is it always congruent with the inquisitiveness to find what is truth? For sure, this question can never be philosophical in life. It can be ideological but I will have to rational in that attempt.
Coining an allegory of a dead cat with philosophy, one of my psycho-analytic encounter is described as below.
A corridor of myself
A window where I hug and hung my shadows
I am there again
With cats dead and with nine lives
Cat in his selfish tone said ...
I am born again to die
She smiled and murmured
A dead cat is just born again
She saw those words in a dream. Voices that speak themselves. Words into voices, thoughts bleeding themselves. Words into shells and snails of mind. As if they are leaving their ocean and hunting her down.
A dead cat, neither black nor white; it is having a mesh of letters all around its body. Those words look engraved in its body. It smiled her through eyes and cried aloud through its lovely small cheeks.
Again and again, she is seeing dead cats in her dream. She saw them while standing in the long queues, sitting in lone gardens, walking up and down irritating stairs and so on. Dreams that she see awakened. She is not sure what is real and what is not. I would like to omit the expression surreal because it has some tint of real in it. Now she begins to ask how can she see a dead cat and a stream of words together in a dream. She ask herself is dreaming an act or an act of denying truth or not at all an act in itself? She took a pen and started hunting down the dead cats and paper tigers.
In the nakedness of truth
A lie is born
In the weakness of my genes
My death cells are born
In the hatred of my body
My mind begins to bleed
In the cavities of my heart
My flowers begins to bloom
In the boundaries of my lies
She laughed aloud and smiled at those shadows. She tore those papers into pieces. She wed the thickness of her summer blanket and started her cat race. In the dilating moments of her eyelids, those cats vanished in dream planes. Into their own space times ...
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