if it were not because i chose to believe that i am one with what makes me what i am, if it were not because i chose to accept that all things with a name are identical to what those things are in their own right, i would be writing this under my own name, my own voice and my own grammatical structuring of language.__for, if this in which i believe were not true, at least in some small times, aranta would be nothing, not even this hollowness behind these eyes --which are often mine, but are mostly hers--; aranta would not even be a name, not even an empty one.
but the thing is, as i have come to know, the fact that aranta is
a name, and such a meaningful one, with only one referent, must imply that aranta has
an essence, one that must
be identical with what aranta is, and since, what i
am and what makes me
be --in this small, green, watched over space--what i am, is contained in the definition of that essence that is identical to that name that designates, denotes and signifies me -being that name "aranta"-, then, i guess i am aranta and aranta is me.
the trouble is, being-aranta is obviously not the same as being-me, for it is a merely accidental and circumstantial affection of that unknown subject that remains through-out time and space.__unless i were able to design a necessary predicate that conjoined aranta and me, and unless that could be considered as a definition of me -a statement not conditioned by space and time-, i have no other choice but to say that aranta is just an accident.__i, here, now, pixelated, nude and raw, behind and before the eye, am no more than an accident::whilst i stand away from this space, i can no longer be aranta; "this used to be aranta" is both my epitaph and what makes me be what i am and not be an accidental predication of the substance i so would like to know.
in the same sense in which a surface
is in its own right pale
am in my own right, aranta