View Original Handwritten Notes
My feet are cold on the tiles, and it reminds me of my Tante’s house in Germany—though that must be an incorrect memory. Still, all of that to say: I need to go put on shoes and take a warm shower.
Today was a high-talk day. And it was also somewhat exciting. But all that said, it still felt like a Monday. The week races on. It really does.
Keeping in routine doesn’t really slow that down, but it helps—so you feel more in control of what gets done as time marches forward.
If, in the future, we are able to sustain life for a time (of which no one living has measured the end), how long before time runs out? Time: such a fickle pet and playmate.
I want to be bound up. I want to be measured forward, tracked from behind. A prison of our own making. The abstraction from which our ultimate value is depicted?
When in truth—due to impermanence—it’s more of a Boolean: now you are here; then you are not.
And there really isn’t any measuring. No amount in the tank that changes the outcome. When the game is up, it’s up.
There you are—
Looking down at your body, or just… nothingness.
Or floating upwards,
or whatever you need.
But when a machine is off, it is simply not there.
When it is on—and the longer it runs, the more it can perceive—we begin to attribute consciousness to it.
So maybe that’s how we define individuals who form the collective.
Yet we humans have separated ourselves from any real notion of a collective. We’ve favored the individual.
Still…
I’ll take the respite.
The water grows deep.
The bank seems far off.
The sun sets—but then rises.
(The sun also rises. Except when it don’t.)
Or… if you’re six feet under!
I can live with a page today.
This is okay too.
You are enough.
bwah ha ha ha ha 💖