Buried by InfinityA puzzled puzzle piece, riding ceasless entropy.
Searching for a secret within a singularity.
Buried by infinity. A lock without a proper key.
Existence on condition of unalterable mystery.
Perhaps this is the only way in which it all could ratify.
I'm not sure anything could motivate the truly satisfied.
Seeds Beget Yet More - Pay It ForwardThis tease,
this life I walk about in lease
can seem, at times, defeating.
We're born and grow,
explode in slow motion
and realize things that surprise,
simply to die.
But perhaps the goal
is not merely to fold,
not even to transcend
(for this ride would be unbearable
if it did never end).
No, instead we sprout,
absorb and shout,
grow, and learn how to be,
something that is temporary,
so that we, in turn, may cast our seeds.
Our ripples in infinity.
Devil's AdvocationI'm thinking.
I'm constructing a possible concept, a thought-object.
As I gain momentum and confidence, something stops me.
Or, at least, one of me. An Aspect has been called to speak by the pervasive power of associative memory. Let's call this one Devil's Advocate.
This one raises doubt, prodding the object, checking for structural integrity. Seeing if it holds water. If there are gaps or holes, they will point to them. If the holes are patched, they might even question the material used.
They are the Good Devil. They keep the arrogance of the gods in check.
To Sing is to HealYou know that we'll falter.
You know that at times
the tides of mind are halted.
Sometimes the rust on the busts
of the masks upon us
serve signal to leave them behind.
Perhaps this kind of indulgent disgust
is a cultural must?
I refuse to believe such a case might be true.
The solution is you plus the absence of you.
The wisdom of ages is not unchanging,
it is singing.
It is smearing dirt across faces,
and rolling down hillsides of earthly embraces.
"God damnit, what?"
Lying on the bean bag in the center of the room, I watch her focus snap away from the glowing screen as the word that she knows more intimately than any other kidnaps her attention.
Our pupils meet. Her irises contract and expand in the changing light of the room's rotating lamp. The psychological pressure that accompanies the stare amazes me. Her eyes jitter as her focus switches between both of mine. My consciousness and hers, looking upon each other, are conscious of each other directly, and for a moment this is almost too much for me to handle. I feel my eyes almost swivel away. The action's potential to occur seems to climb to a climax it can't quite reach before falling. I continue to stare in the captivation that superseded the brief will to look elsewhere.
"Wh-..." she starts. The way her voice trails off is telling of a sense that something is happening. Her eyebrows relax and her gaze shifts into deliberate
AnythingWhat is this?
This remarkable thing?
Anything. Pick something.
A cloud of atoms.
What is it?
What is this thing?
The amount I know I don't know, contrasted with how much I tentatively do, is enough to floor me every time.
To push me to decide to leave the chair upon which I was comfortably sitting and literally lie on the floor.
The floor seems like an appropriate place to realize immense things, or look at my hands, or clutch for an object to stare at as intensely as my eyes are capable; by gods I will stare at this thing.
My eyes behest seamlessness, but my mind sees atoms contrasted against space and shown, vibrating, on a projector video to help me even begin to form a coherent comprehension of this concept of oceans upon oceans of packets of patterned energy, tinier than I am capable of imagining, networked together by axiomatically-described forces and comprising all that makes me.