if i ever feel better/when it’s all over i’ll let you know

The central question is, I guess, how to exist, however we choose to define that word, with whatever power we opt to give it, or at least to the farthest reaches of our understanding of the concept, of what it means to live. And how to exist when you feel turned inside out, as though you are occupying negative space, I guess, is a dilemma indeed, except when you first learned that you could exist by becoming someone else, a person inside whatever book you’re reading, say, and in that case, you find a way to both escape your existence, or non-existence as the case may be, and actualize yourself into a manner of being, even if said manner of being lives entirely in the imaginary space of a relationship: the relationship between your thoughts, which one cannot touch, and the pages of a book, which are devastatingly corporeal. Sub-question, but one that determines the outcome: which is more dangerous; the ephemeral, inside, or the concrete, exposed? Which has a mightier sting? This is arbitrary and decided behind closed doors.
Put it another way. You occupy negative space. In order to escape this predicament you must negate the space around you to become a positive; this is something like a resurrection, except you weren’t dead before, you were simply not-living. You achieve this “becoming” by climbing into the crevices of the words and living inside the book, a manner of consecration by your understanding, insofar that consecration, as defined by the Catholic Dictionary, “is an act by which a thing is separated from a common and profane to a sacred use, or by which a person or thing is dedicated to the service and worship of God by prayers, rites, and ceremonies”–that is, substituting “thing” for “self” and “God” for “god.”
“The custom of consecrating persons to the Divine service and things to serve in the worship of God may be traced to the remotest times.”
Remote, far away from everything, except for the brain and except for the book, not by the book but actually BORNE OF the book.
It is this in way that you became magical, not a virgin birth because the words are infinite, but a necessary fission. From the negative space, you climb outside yourself into flesh. But you are the first to be birthed both entirely alone and solely by words, a far greater miracle than the father-seahorse who carries the babies or even the fleshless unions of zygotes in glass beakers. You are magical, and exist, only because you have written yourself into it and if the words stop you will cease, not die but cease, which is much, much worse. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t don’t don’t don’t stop then, please don’t stop the beat. The heart beat. Get a load of the syntax on that baby! Don’t don’t don’t do-do-do-don’t stop. It’s like a bad day that never ends.