The Line Continues: Motion, Witness, and the Craft of Space

January 29th, 2026

Up there it's their time. It's their time. Down here, it's our time, it's our time down here! That's all over the second we ride up that bucket. Don't get in the bucket. Once you get on the ride, prepare yourself and go all in. Before any of that, sit back, ensure there is ease. Ease of muscle and ease of breath. Stay in motion. Imagine what you can do, what you are doing. Multiples of output. Have to batch review what's pushed to staging. Multiple roles all leveling up all at once.

You can feel the energy that has built like a coil, springy, and unleashes like a viper's strike. Lightning. Speed of light. Lightspeed.

The line. A simple device, powerful as any weapon. But how strategically can the line be deployed? How well can it float across page.

Music is a beautiful way to feel the universe, to surround emotion with all kinds of forms and depth. Imagination instruments sounds: speed, tempo, crescendos, adagios. Pulse. Can be felt. Visceral. Floating. Out there. Felt. Uncharted symphonies, beautiful in their orchestration. Isolating in depth. Bellatrix.

I will continue to write when I have something to write about. I have trained for this, to write when there is nothing. When mind does not, you put on shoes and get out there. Get out as fast as you can. Lace up. Once you know distraction, God. Do not waste time. Action has one direction and that is movement. Direct yourself. Be adaptable. All the things, in all the ways. You can feel it building. The energy is palpable. As great as it all is, there is a desire for more, for there is still much on the table. Table stakes and herb butter.

My handwriting feels challenged, and thus penmanship seems a most important focus for the moment, or the matter. For if the line cannot be made into meaning, then what have it? We are mere souls journeying through space in our relative time. Trying to squeeze in another day on this planet cruising through space, sucking oxygen. We evolved apes. Fuming egos burning like hot ash, fiery and ill-tempered from our recent connection to the beasts from which we grew apart. I say beast for I would not wish to be locked into a room with an unevolved ape. And why would an animal choose harm over good in any scenario? When is it from not knowing, anger, malice, hate? Accidental?

Animals, more so than humans, seem unpredictable, but are they really? Or is it humans who are the truly unpredictable? Where does our power come from? Who are we as a species? Where did we come from?

I wish to give in, but the joy of the writing keeps me going. On the letter-making and the peace I have just from that and nothing else, watching as words present themselves on the page, never knowing what will come next. My soul's purpose is to stay focused as steady witness and preserve the moment in beautiful detail of the line which focuses the word that forms the sentence, which hopefully forms some meaning. Although it could be complete randomness. The goal being how loose can witness become. How true to the sense of recording and my role as scribe can I be. How well can I step out of the way and let things be as they are, take their own motion, pivoting strategically, quickly setting up again, and keep going. Once something is in motion, it is much harder to stop. In space, that truth applies even more fantastically. The motion you assert, you must also contend with the counter motion.

Not just the line, but the motion of the shape of the line. How does set and setting and auditory input influence the process of capturing thoughts? When you slow it all down and go into the line, become the line, the essence from inner emotion drawn out from line to letter to word, to express that which is inside screaming to get out. Just mining here, but also maybe looking and running and sluicing as much material as quickly as I can in the most efficient way possible, processing universe through the synaptic interpretations of our moody being. The realm of sense being the first channel. The base. Where it all takes place, where life is given and death comes and transference.

The line continues making its way through tonnage of waste. Material and the substance and soup of the universal, bled, pressed through a soul to form the litmus reading of what a life means.

What does a life mean? How does one give life meaning when feelings can leave a space of meaninglessness, where sometimes there is no ground and we are no longer having a toe on Earth, on this planet. But maybe that toe never belonged here in the first place and the uncomfortable truth is our abandonment here in hopes we come to terms with environment and self and can rise above the base channel and go from basic cable to telepathy. Orchestrated cognition. Thought like electricity and the ability to work in those fields with built-in, on-board equipment.

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Related Explorations

• Handwriting as Meditation: Sourcing Creativity Through Flow, Breath, and Rhythm - On being witness and scribe, the practice of recording consciousness, breath work, and the craft of the line
• Cosmic Motion and Human Perspective - On journeying through space, the reality of constant motion, and being "star people" hurtling through the universe
• Stay Out of the Way: Being a Scribe to Consciousness - Another reflection on organic energy, transmissions, and the role of witness (Day 5 of Decan 32, same cycle)