Logos is a threat to the intrinsic ambiguity of existence; it fragments an existence already shredded by time. Logos is the form-giving principle, and I despise form; but the lower soul despises form too, for it is only in moral and existential ambiguity of my Being that it gets to wallow in the filth of the underworld and sink into the abyss of meaninglessness.
Logos is a ray of light; it is a threat to darkness. But it is also a threat to the intrinsic ambiguity necessary for creative impulse. The only place where I can have some light, some good old logos, and some creative freedom is in poetry.
Poetry is the soft light; it is not sharp like laser but gentle like the incoherent light of my study; it lights my room but also lets the shadows loose and relax. Oh dear, I love the shadows; in them I miss my beloved, as a shadow is the missing of light.
I cannot love the light without the shadow. I am a lover of this world, of darkness and injustice, for it is the ugly and the unjust that heighten my consciousness of beauty and justice; we are more conscious of beauty in the presence of the ugly than in its absence. In an all white-colored room, the consciousness of whiteness dies out soon and gets lost in the monotony of a homogenous perception.
Oh, I love imperfect and inhomogeneous things, for it is falling short that keeps me high; it is imperfection that keeps me awake to perfection. I love all my defects; I adore them like my pets; they are my blessings, my support. How can I not love everything that I am, my light and my shadows alike!
For consciousness, a perfect heaven becomes all hell. I want and love this earth where heaven and hell can live by and enliven me. I love this cocktail of pain and bliss; I love even my hell. My hell is my own; it is my ground and my truth; I walk my hell among people but I keep it on a leash made of leach, so it doesn’t escape; my hell is good and loyal. Oh dear, love your hell; hell is family; hell is Logos.