Spectre

Life, and all that comes to be contained within it or suffer the misfortune of rhizomatic associations, is nothing more than fleeting moments of the present turned past; lost before the realisation of its presence.

And, in that paradox of paradoxes, we lose that which we can never have, that which we never have.

People, in the history of that which we call a life prefixed with the I/eye, are nothing more than spectres passing by - gone before they ever were there. They come and go; some pass to return again, others dissipate into the mist of other spectres and the veils of history. Their hands brush against ours, their heat emanate from the momentary bodies which dissipate into a cold trail as they pass. They touch but never feel, they speak but one never hears.

Nothing quite lasts, no one truly stays a lifetime. They come close, they feel, they touch, and they leave. Victims of circumstance, pawns of fate. These are the reasons we choose to believe for this condition of fleetingness, this transience of human relations. But they are often nothing more than the facade that masks the sin - the sin of not recognising what is lost, what can be lost; the sin of acceptance; the sin of disbelief.

Of disbelieving that there is choice in the matter and in that choice is effort required. But alas it is the sin of acceptance that corrupts.

And so acceptance turns to custom and custom to belief. And so while we think we are masters of our lives we are nothing more than spectres manipulated by a fate we have not carved but think we have. For we attribute our loneliness and isolation, the pervading ennui, to circumstance, to condition. But it is in acceptance of circumstance that is the very paradox of our misplaced belief in an autonomous destiny.

Changing destiny demands effort. But we are too weak...

And so we are spectres that come and go. And so we are already dead even as we are living.