idle memories

steppes

Adiaphorus

Faces in the crowd lazily fluctuated.  Only twenty bodies occupied the stoa, but hundreds, maybe thousands, of minds occupied the bodies, their faces briefly seen in every anthropic form.  All to hear the words of great thinkers.  The speakers were passionate.  Their tone patient and resonant.  All who were present felt as one, and by occupying the same bodies, they were one, at least for a while.  

"We all have the capacity to live rich and fulfilling lives, now more than ever. A unique form of connection has arisen in the world, and we are here to witness it, be a part of it.  The worlds we virtually create have opened us to experiences never believed to be possible.  We are truly becoming perfect beings, one with each other and our environments, limitless, boundless."

"But what of the outside world?  Surely it is just as important as any of the worlds we have created here."

"It is just one possible world.  Simulations are giving us all possible worlds."

"But not all of those possible worlds are good ones."

"Yet there are countless that you would call good.  The world outside of virtuality is severely limited in its possibility.  Out there, you get no choice in whether the world is good or bad.  It conforms to everyone's desires, and desire creates conflict."

"What kind of conflict?"

"Once a desire manifests, there is initially the struggle to obtain what is desired.  Then internal and interpersonal conflict arises as the desire confronts other desires, both one's own and those of other people."

"What can we do to avoid this conflict?"

"It is impossible. All one can do is temper one's own desires to conform to one possible world, or create a fictional world where all of one's desires can be satisfied without conflict."

"But if I live in a fictional world, am I really living?"

This Way To Space - Time

Hold my eyes in earnestness
The depth that gets me going
A tear, a rip, in my quantum face
My mouth begs my ears for forgiveness
Sorry you had to hear that
I still don’t know my place
Intoxicated thoughtlessness
Keeps me indecisive 
And tired of being the unfit one
Dig myself a hole in the floor
Seal the boards over my head
And live here in this dirt basement
Until I am worms
And can eat shit without getting sick
Then the snakes can come at me
Shoulders hunched and swaying
With their underground music
Rocking, pulsing, hypnotizing
Prescribe my life to Ouroboros 
Eternal recurrence
Coincidental or determined convergence?
A fire in the hand
Means smoke in the eye
But a fire in the heart...

For The Sound Of It

"I should get going. It's getting late."
"But you only just got here. I have so much to show you."
"I have people waiting for me."
"I'm people too."
"Yeah, but these people aren't patient. They're not going to stick around if I keep them waiting."
"Well, what are you planning to do with them?"
"I don't know yet. I guess they'll make the plans."
"It's too bad our pseudo-plans never stick."
"I can't make plans with you when I don't what my plans are with these other people. What if they conflict?"
"Then we reschedule, and we keep rescheduling until it sticks."
"It could be forever."
"I know."

Zones Of Attrition

To find something to be beautiful, one must look at it without thinking about it. Thinking creates expectations and rules, so one may be under the opinion that something is beautiful, but the true sense of beauty in this world is things as they are in their natural, unanalyzed state. Of course, then analysis itself is beautiful, that it has naturally arisen. And have not all things arisen naturally, for all has come from this universe that we know and perceive.

Cosmic Radiance pt. 1

And she condensed all of her emotions into a ball of tinder, lit the match, and turned away from the blaze. Memories and feelings turned to ash. And in another second, she was surrounded by mirrors depicting every possible version of herself. A bat raised over her head, brought down with a smash, over and over, until all that remained were two mirrors, one showing her bloodied face and shredded clothes, shards of mirror, shards of the pieces of herself, jutting from the slashes and lying in a crystalline mess in all directions. [Time measuring devices, a series of numbers getting larger and larger, a pile of sand pouring off the surface of the earth to count the stars, grain by grain.] The final mirror shows no reflection. It shows her imminent non-existence. Bat dropped, bent in full force, anticipation of the burst, until contact with the mirror does not yield a smash but a flash, and the world of blood and glass has passed. She stands on nothing, with no up and no down, so gone she's not even naked. Ethereal spiderweb where time and space have fallen away, a tendriled non-being that doesn't exist, but there she is, so she has being. She drips in her dissonance from one universal bloodstream into a pool of other fragile tendrils, loosely clinging to their identities and their completeness. But even their totality must be divided, feeding themselves to the cannibalistic attraction of conformity and absorption. She dives in, or rather is spliced into the mass, like fibers of a rope. Unlike rope, supertemporal ghosts cannot be bound in place and do not fray from the friction of entwining and unentwining. Her pieces easily become lost in the sea of existence.

arbitrary intentions

We feel like we’re moving forward but really, we’re just moving. Not in circles, not backwards. Spreading chaotically out from ourselves. Welding pieces of the world to the insides of our skulls and leaving a mass of garbage and all the beautiful things we’ve created, more things to fill more homes, more minds, more more more. It’s never enough, need to eat, need to breathe, need to experience. I look around at all of the things I’ve accumulated, they are pieces of my world, of myself. To separate from them would mean to leave a part of myself, but I cannot be the entire world. Which parts are me, and which are the world imposing its existence on me? And here I am, thinking it’s ok to impose my existence on the world. Should I have asked permission? World, is it ok for me to be here? No one asked for this, World. But we’re here now, trying to figure our way through your convoluted presence.

SomethingElse

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