“My wound existed before me; I was born to embody it.”
Entry to the Wound
You are a wild cherry tree rooted in a concrete pot.
Your growth is constrained; your branches press against the shape of the frame, the shape of your name.
You resist. You ache. You are strong, but so are the forces that contain you.
It is not your choice, and yet you have no choice.
There is no path but to grow inwards:
a becoming that folds and falls into itself. Solitude becomes your soil.
You are the desert in which you grow roots. The wound becomes your solitude.
You become the wound.
You have no cause. Nothing has caused you
— not even the forces that formed you.
Your origin is silenced, erased; only the ache remains.
An ache with no cause, A becoming without a beginning, A world without a horizon.
The Ontology of Existential Exile
The wound sits in the most eye-catching corner of the cold house; alone, invisible
—not because it hides, but because no one is tuned to perceive it.
It learns to exist without a << witness >>.
The wound is a scream that cannot hear itself. It is blocked becoming.
It exists in pulses, not as a hum. The warmth of continuity was denied to the wound.
The wound is before the language. It is before me, it is before you. It has no words; but a body.
It doesn’t understand; it registers.
It is a song whose lyrics are lost. It is a vector with no coordinates. The wound has no place to go; the wound has no place to stay.
The wound is homeless; not as the freedom of constant drifting, but as the collapsed passage where becoming cannot yet take form. The wound is an ontological exile. The wound is frozen in time.
It is a moment folding into itself,
a gesture that produced no world, a presence that was not registered, a call that was not answered. It is the wound of absence.
It aches not from what happened, but from what did not happen:
What cannot be placed cannot be found. Who has never left cannot return.
The wound keeps collapsing into itself.
This is no psychology; it is the fall of a horizon of becoming. This is the << trans-systemic abandonment >> that no one authored.
It is the residue of a relational field that failed to carry life forward.
The wound is the place where a child’s growing neural network was invaded, overwritten, colonised.
The wound is a house haunted by itself. The wound is a ghost whose dead remain unburied, suspended in the ground of the body.
The wound longs. It longs for someone to return and bury the wound. The wound seeks a site, a place to exist, to dissolve, to be buried. The wound holds; it becomes a house without a roof, closest thing to a home — as an emergent assemblage of becoming.
It freezes, it shrinks.
It burns, it amplifies.
It creates something out of nothing, and undoes something into nothing.
It keeps itself alive. The wound survives.
The wound leaks. It leaks into becoming.