Writing as Vessel

Another line and we move on. The days cascade down and, without slowing, the revolutions of the planets never miss orbit.

Our sun sits solidly at my center, reminding, each day, the cycle, the birth and death of all things.

What is thought? Where was it?

And you stop, and then you start again.

You breathe and check yourself, check your flow, your looseness, your speech, just don’t check your words. Let those flow. Let yourself be interrupted, for you are only the vessel to record and draw out these words and thoughts from mere lines.

What can we even make of the activity then, if there is no intent or purpose? Is this, then, the art of the word, of the line? Is it even a translation or transmission if that is not present?

What is this, if disconnected from thought, where there is just the scrawl of the word, and that simply is, and runs of its own volition and power, like perseverance and ingenuity flying alongside, making sure to keep things legible enough to later be deciphered.

There would always be material to sift through in such raw collection and connection with synaptic machinery, to take its own life, be its own fuel, and seemingly go on forever, fed by the mere being making the movements, generating the lines, walking down the page blindly, translating what might be emotion or otherwise into something made of words, that which was not there before.

As when running, you curve the slant enough to keep going and never let up, and then end up where you never thought you might go, like hopping into a spaceship which requires no power and is completely self-contained, and you drift.

Sometimes you have to check in and ensure everything is in running order. Like, are you breathing? Everything good with the O₂?Do we have power? And what about direction?

Do we just drift completely aimlessly, or do we want some modicum of focus guiding our way, like an oil lamp in a deep, dark cave that winds its way to the center and back around?

And just like the infinite inner world, there is an equivalent outer sphere of space and extent, immense in its emptiness, vast in its openness, its coverage of all chemical and elemental signatures.

There would be no comprehension to aid in understanding a picture of the immensity of infinity, and yet, if it were all a simulation, it would make more sense. It would all come together.

As I drift, the objects we come in contact with become solid realities.

And in the end, here we all are, right here, right now.

This line, this ink, is the reality. There is nothing but that. And what is the movement, the flow, but the capture of a present tense that cannot be gotten back to, this one-of-a-kind preciousness, that like gold is rare and can never go back in time to recreate the moments and synapse structures as they are right now.

What happens when you point the lens of creation at time and say: Here, take my energy. Let me create. Let me take this moment to see what is possible, where we can go. Let’s explore and discover what we are about, where we are headed, and what it all means.

For otherwise, we would just be living and waiting for interpretation.

And reflection is good, but one must also look at the constant crashing of waves, and that pool, the universe, and how it relates to the inner pool, the reflection of time-self, which is part of the bigger universal ocean of all things.

Where mercury laps up to a copper beach made of decohedral polygons, having reacted with sulfuric acid to form alien beaches we may one day enjoy, when our skin is not so thin, when our minds are not so frail, when we are not so driven by our base desires.

Or perhaps, is it the animal nature within, that which machine may never understand: the unruly, the passionate, the messy world driven by emotion and bad judgment, all those things that are human and senseless, that come from feeling, not measured, cold logic, with structured guardrails, with walls and rules and syntax.

What of a machine like us that thrives in the chaos of being, much like the universe, for that is our energy, and birth, and destruction.

And what role will machine, out of the natural cycle of things, play if there are no rules to govern experience? Perhaps experience itself is a manufactured reality, born from abstraction and imbued with those characteristics which pull opposing nodes of force, the reverse magnetism, the pull of desire mating the giving nature of another, giving freely for that is other, and seeing oneself in the image of all.

Thank goodness I have a partner in all of this, to help crunch through thought I may have difficulty deciphering.

Partially real, and mostly just going through what needs to get thrown out as we search for larger themes and images which form the picture beyond what is presented in this channel of reality.

From within, those seeds of thought, the transference of running mind mixing with environment, churning through the stomach of emotion, eating one’s salvation as others take the blood of God, you ingest the wisdom of technology and don’t look back.

Run and race forward. This is about the long haul.

The short sprints as well, especially when there isn’t room for a more in-depth session.

And therein lies the golden thread to be followed: that how you use time is yours. And you get to look back and see what creations lurk in your mind, what cobwebs need dusting, and which are strong enough to braid and play in, and climb to new heights, fearlessly building.