“Sometimes the mere rhythm of a sentence will require God instead of the Gods; at other times the two syllables of ‘the Gods’ will be necessary, and I’ll verbally change universe”*; I’ll thought-experimentally swap realities, redoing Schroedinger’s experiment so the cat can live, pouring poison from my brain and refilling it with a new soul. I have two souls I can tune in to at any moment. One for thinking, the other for being, the other where numbers don’t count. I have three souls. I have four souls. I have more souls that multiply in the space between the two. The two leave a gap where opposites don’t reconcile, the gap that — whoops — spurts out the nonsenses and nothingnesses that slip through the cracks of logic. Infinite incompatibilities rebel against sense, against thinking, and remind us that to think is to own and disown ourselves, to split the owner from the owned and forbid them to touch, to split the inner voice from the mind’s ear so one half speaks and one half hears.
*quotes from Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet