Exclamation of spells: questioning

No question mark is floating in an empty space. I mean, no question is objective. To have a question, you have to desire. It is not desiring something real, but close enough. You have an inclination to that question and not to the other. It is not asking just to ask. It has a will. It is another world you've had glimpses of. Another universe. The possibility of another universe within this one, that is the will to question. Intricate...

I question only the ones I want. Or maybe I only want the ones I have big questions about. Doesn't really matter. It is the same. To question and to want, to desire. The others do not relate to me at all. If I was objective, you know, like a subject who is the master of objects including others, I should have been putting question marks on everybody. That doesn't happen. You pass many people without having any interest in them. But ones that I relate myself or the ones that relate themselves to me in a seductive way, forcing me to question them (what is seduction anyway if it is not the force that drives you to a particular place, a particular mood, a particular sensation, it is spell) while being interesting enough or promising a land that is not yet discovered, even by themselves, those are the ones who promise another universe. Almost like a spell, a force drives you to question something in particular. I think it was Bergson who said "a philosopher has only one question." One real question that animates her thinking. A will to something, to a way of existing in other words. The seductiveness of other universes belongs to the will to create, I think. Asking a question becomes like a dance almost. I don't want to tango for example. Tango is a style of questioning far away from my standing. I want to invent the rules of dancing, invent the postures while dancing. Real education within the concept of dance itself. To be challenged with the complexity of dancing. Of course if you are willing to dance from the beginning, that complexity would be a creation of yours. That feels good no matter how confusing it is. There is an atmosphere of a spell of another universe in questioning/dancing. You are forced to do certain things and not others. Rules are inventing themselves if you are under the spell of that other universe where everything is strange. You discover the rules of the moment in that other universe. And if you are under the spell of that other universe, if you will to question it, if it is seducing you to come and discover, you live there, in that moment, as an exclamation.

I know it has been very confusing. But it is confusing. I am just trying to make sense of my questions/exclamations. At the end I now see that they are the product of the same: a spell of a kind that rules over the life itself. Maybe curiosity and the will to curiosity is THE spell... And it is never objective. Curiosity is being under a spell, allow it or not, it will take you over.

We were all poets...

We were all poets back in those days,
we would ooze out from the cracks of life and merge on the way.

We were all poets,
our poems would live by leaning over each other without any other ground.
Nobody would ask a question like "what is expressed by the poet here?"
We all knew that the expressed was always another poem, resisting to explanation.

We were all poets,
we would become polluted while leaking from the cracks of life.
We would flow into each other's poem, blurred.

We were all poets,
we would look to each other with loaded eyes.
And we loved each other through the pouring poems of our eyes,
we would make love to the extent of our thick and blurry and dirty waters mingled...

We were all poets as much as we were embodied poems,
we would touch one another while becoming some other image every time.
Each time, with our image-becoming that comes from pre-historic times and goes to infinity,
that travels across the whole of time,
that fills the space between us with a time that never was,
we were acquainted with each other as ourselves during the encounters of our intensities.

We were all poets back in those days.
Time, embarassed of our existence, would bend to our presence.
We,
we would look at it with serenity through our violent image-becomings.
So would time give up its being history,
it would let itself free in every move of its peculiar dance and it would talk about its before.
In its every curve, there was always a franticness.
In every franticness, there always was an infinity.
The deepness of being would talk to us from within this infinity.
The deepness of being narrated the savage character of our image-becomings as if we were always there, we were there eternally...