Bounds of Cadwell


When I was in my flourishing fourteen years old, I came upon an entrancing Pythagorean concept named “Monad”, to exist beyond owns perceptive limitations, an idealogical crucible of mysticism and poetic naiveness of some superior unity.

Hence, it began with one, from one divided and to one shall once again collide.

To believe in this singularity is to discard sensibilities that we often hold integral to our perception of the world. Even the scope of diversity and inclusivity can’t shy away from the latent human hedonism radiating from our nature – as holy chosen, as the children of an expansive universe that seemingly only we can perceive, even if just in shreds.

Although I make no attempts at proving the existence of a monad, the ideological motor behind it has been a strong cannon for my poetic development: from fourteen until now, all my compositions have pursued those shreds of perception. To feel as if, perhaps for lonely microseconds, I can grasp the unity of our existence in a single verse, that I can expose universal sentiments inside solemn stanzas, that the honesty of my poems may somehow be connective to the singularity – the monad.

Trying arduously to capture these sentiments, I’ve decided to write this piece at my already-florished twenty-two years of age. I wish to keep expanding my work, taking it to grounds that I can’t fathom, however, I carry the weight of the singularity inside my work, and any realisation that I’ve truly achieved it seems to be an illusion I hold tightly to. Rend, therefore, is my humble attempt to close that illusion, and it serves as a double entendre: to rend the monad, capture any shreds that might fall placidly to the pages, and lock it within any glued cover that serves it’s purpose.

Despite my palpable aromantic nature, I tend to feel the most effusive unity when I write romantic poetry, or even further, ultra-romantic, a style that is both native and natural to my writing. As such, rending the singularity is an action that I insist on channelling through pitiful (and sometimes hopeful) cliches of romance. To “ultrafy” that is to spice those displays with spiked existentialism, an almost elemental feeling of inadequacy and desperation, an exasperated and tired position towards the workings of Time, and the tangible heaviness of Death through it’s inner circles.

So far, five monadic compositions have been published on Caliath:













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Hoje sou tudo no nada que sou, amanhã serei outro.

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