before you read what’s below, know that it’s no longer current. it was before 6/25/2015, before I realized 44v1 was not made up of essays but of lined poetry…
A Collection of Essays about Life & The Universe
written by T. Y. A. [1/3/13]; let go by T. A. H.[11/16/14]
44v1 is obliterated by extensive editing, a confusing depresence, & lined with The Young Artist’s fear of failure. He tried his best to deliver a copy clearly received & well accepted by an audience–in the end, he did neither. It survived a turbulent several months on Amazon before being pulled from the market and indefinitely shelved.There was a plan prior to the 12k Event of 2k13 to save 44v1 by restoring the original, pre-edited napkin text and republishing it as “44v2.” But alas, 44v1–like 44v3–was expelled from our window and ultimately destroyed, thus eliminating the possibility of its restorative salvation. A vault exists with hundreds of different 44v1 copies, and for this final release, Manic Dreams Network has chosen a single version, at last, based only on its saved .doc title, “For the Universi“; below, for us, 44v1 is alive, here, with its arrhythmic beat, for us, to make sense of all that is left, so we may appreciate it! This piece of Network, for what it’s worth! For The Young Artist! For what he believed! And for his success in the attempt to expose his 098 innards with the brush of B20:
Table of Contents
Friends Unbeknownst Is Loss a Choice? Brush your Teeth A Clump of Hair So much destruction I shot a Chipmunk We must stop eventually Henry Bleep Bloop And to this I implore: Moments of Clarity Fear what is There A Voice The Loneliest Night GARY WILL YOU RETURN The Child I’m Seventy Six Have you seen To this and More It’s not [even] a key Trying New things Isn’t it obscure? In Darkness I Write The Sleeping Essay Temptation: The Final influence It is this I pray The Beautiful End Some Day, A Distant Day For love My Gift of Self All Maps The Art of Return Sequential Thought
Where is everyone
Late Earliness Yesterday Planning Ahead A Desire For Future The Cloned Life So Will I The Poor Man Who Weeps Mainstream & The Artist Rules of Engagement Insolence Welp The Most The Beckoning November 30th 11:52 PM The Focus of One’s Thought Mono Sell it I sold it A Matter of Predictability The Urge There are strangers I found it in Your Sweetness A Prelude to Love a Focus among the unfocused I believe in the possibility of us, When I say Goodbye Life beyond the game. Ah yes Where are my people? Why you? Awareness of Relativity The limitations of Conviction It’s the King’s Castle Voices
With Acceptance & Love
Manic Dreams Network presents:
44v1: For the Universi
LYRIC ESSAYS WITH DRAWINGS & DIAGRAMS BY JUSTIN W. SCHAEFFER ON THE SUBJECTS OF LOVE, LOSS, UGLINESS, PASSION, DEATH, & UNIVERSALITY
When I dip my legs into the flow of human life I can feel the current of our shared mind passing. 44v1: For the Universi is my translation of those feelings divided into 44 essays & 25 sub-essays without common subject or planning, all composed under the influence of different scenarios and settings in moment to moment Spots of Time. I don’t know, it’s just when I am out there I can feel so much in here, but what I feel isn’t mine, it’s ours, altogether the man, the people, and our mind’s river quietly interweaving amongst the silent and outspoken…
Who sings is my King, is my Queen. He is so beautiful, she is so beautiful. The voice I’ll hear it and know who my ears are quivering to, who my heart is pleading to: the child and she, who sing. What I would do for him, for her, the lengths I would go if only they would know, only he would know, how I sit before them, if only everyone knew this sincerity of mine.
The children they sing, they play and they dance, they laugh and they love, and they become you and me, lives seeking for the hopes of once were. The universe is there, here in the child’s eyes, he who sees and she who knows! There is nothing more significant, nothing at all, with our lives so devoted to them all.
What is it I live for? Who is it for I suffer? It is the child. Their beauty of mind is the collapse of my soul, how far away I’ve traveled, how long I’ve unbecome. The scars and height they see, the knowing I feel for a humility—I cannot express it…gone, far too gone… but I still try to listen.
My back is caving toward the child I will never be. Parents and Grandparents get the failed second, third, and fourth chance but all will end with you and me, watching and calling to the becoming name growling, walking, and soon to stand so far from the beauty in which they came.
My life goes with the child standing still, he looks upward, she looks upward to the man kneeling looking down into clasped hands soon to wetten in consequence to the magnitude of everything before him. How could he have traveled so far without seeing how far he had gone, within, always within, the children’s voices crying out for so long.
As the man would, as the woman shall too turn inward with critical light and remember who they once were, reminiscent they will clasp to their inner self and croak out to their child long gone. And he will walk, as will she, toward the last known sight of who they used to be, to the child singing so far away.
And at point all the men and women will march this way, will hobble this way, will crawl this way to the voice so beautiful and so possibly everything to ever work to live for behind them, so seemingly behind yet so everything around them, so here and now, so incredibly hopeless to the timing of their celebrated progress away from what we must understand to be human.
And when we look down at them know it is the universe looking up. Know that when we starve them, the world’s child, we do so in flight from them. It, everything is within them and yet so many do everything they can to be better than them, to be everything more than they once were, to be so much louder than the voice singing stop.
Some live for the child who see us as something more, the child who cannot understand our apology for having gone so far away from what we once knew, from what he knows, from what she will forever know as the start, end, universe, and the child who sings majestically, “please be with them, please be with us all.”
Years old and this is my story. I have four kids and nine grandchildren. I have four older siblings who are alive just like me, happy as clams, with wide smiles embedded into each of our respective faces. My wife passed away five years ago. My brothers and sisters half live in nursing homes and half-live out of the state. God has been good to me. My children and their children live 3-9 hours away; I see them frequently, once every few months I think. Everything is planned, it must be planned I tell them all. I live without care, without wash, brush, and much to love on. Trash builds, mice crawl, insects scatter. The window fluid is always one inch to the right of the old rag just behind the sink faucet. A rodent knocked it over when I was asleep one night. I had such a fuss about that I called off my grandchildren’s monthly visitation for 3 2 months. I needed the time to recooperate. Three weeks before they visit I will borrow the landlord’s community vacuum and thoroughly vacuum all of the floors. I will spray them afterwards with pineapple scented anti-bacterial mist; mist, mist. When that’s done I will steal my landlord’s car and go to the store, two stores in all: a grocery store and a toy store. Always get the trinkets first don’t want the perishable goods to go bad. Each child I will trinket with one toy and one grapefruit. They must eat the fruit before getting toyed, no tears allowed timothy eat the fruit don’t make me say it again. I can’t imagine living without my children. The sadness in their eyes, boring after meaningless day saved by their own children’s lives promising and dreaming of something else.
The moon lately? It’s getting pretty old. Just the other day I saw it and it looked old. No, I don’t know why it does, there is just something about it, a something lacking from it. When I was a kid I loved the moon. Remember? Moon this, moon that, moon bedsheets, moon pillow covers, moon lunchbox, moon pencil set, moon underwear, moon cereal—of course, on my 10th birthday I got one but used it less and less the older I became.
Can mean so much, it really can. If we are to hold our own clumps of lost treasure can we not hold the clumps of other lost keratin. Can we or can we not care for theirs as we do ours? There is loss, this we all will always share, but what for its supporting virtue? Must we play both roles or may we sacrifice one for the other, another for the other, so infinitely gesterious and genuine it could all be always, for all of us, to collectively let go of our own and take on the regrettable loss of others, then heal them by returning their loss with warmth, encouragement, and compliment. You and I will exchange, each ignoring our own and letting go of what no longer serves us, to let fall our excess through each other’s relaxed hands emotionally and spiritually. It will be these reciprocal actions that carry our inevitable decay of ultimate loss into our next realm of summaritive treasure.
Isolated in our world of worlds, extended so far we are to so many, the poor man weeps condemned to his shrinking world grown shrunken with self-song and vibrations of returning silence. He the man mourns his loss alone, but what sheds his tears is the sight ahead of all of theirs—never once was it his! And gravity arches his neck bent with bubbles of skin raising hair, he watching the encroachment of his chin into chest, and the pathway for his soul raining open open and down into the roots of a plant I sacrificed my life to grow.
Instant Love. Humanitarian, not sexual, though it may arouse unknown inwards explosively erect and sensitive to the want of fucking more. The prelude to instant life is something individually, rarely but accessibly shared between lifes. This can be human to human, human to animal, human to deceased; anything resembling human, for humans know love through time and space, instantly; this will be true for eternity. Vocabulary drops into feeling and communication evolves into knowing—a shared sense so beautiful, so easy, so easy is this love that heals unconditionally.
Instant Love. The kind of love which reveals the infinite capacity of the shared mind. Find this instantaneous love, for global, universal peace is there through our life and into the extension of our unified death. To me your belief is recognized as choice. We will all as most have done seek comfort in the end of our hearts; this is but two said so many times again by others, now me: love. This is your truth. It is your reason now go forth and love until you die. Love those who hate out of love, love them not out of mercy for their merciless impending eternal punishment is soon to come.
It is not the unknown that makes us fear. What we fear is what we know taken further by imagination. Fear something you see and you will see more with it. The self will see it, you and your mind will talk about things with it, partial lies and truths but all fabricated—all self-directed, all self-questioned, all self-answered. You and your mind are telling you to see past what is there and into what is not there. What is there, is, but is it all there that is?
Your friend and you, you and your mind, such friends, such enemies, such what is it that you both are? To which—ally or enemy—can it be seen past the known beyond the extension of mind’s discussed fabrications luckily and unluckily lying? But moreso what is there is possibly converging into a real centered universal truth. This imagination could see so much if it could fly with undamaged wings caused by the deafening chatter of so many lives asking and pleading for purpose to what it is they expend their limited flesh-energy, and why, for what reason does this happen so habitually yet so forced mechanically, sympathetically but why, why is this felt?
It is you and your mind creating what is the unknown. By rule it is infinite to our incredible capacity of mind. If all fear is confronted this way—to fear what is there—there would be no fear. None & no fear. I live and I will die; I am born and I will be dead. To the example of my left and right how should I proceed, to know is right within ignoring the past is there. If you knew ahead of time what fear was and continued to read this writing knowing already what is to be said you are not capable of transcending what it is to be unknown. The fear of the unknown is to be unknown; this is it, use and you will see power, practice and you will be power, master and you will return with solitude into the feared.
If I was approaching a wall would I know it’s coming—before I felt it. I sense a wall and I’ve sensed other walls. All were real. I am scared my run is close to ending because I am acting not like myself. I’m getting into trouble and so much of what I’m doing is bad. I’m running down changing into either nothingness or badness. Loneliness is easy but it’s beginning to wear on me. I expend small amounts of a depleting source of energy trying to cure this deep ailment of mine to always hear and listen to one voice. And this single voice has betrayed me repeatedly, if a me is even here anymore.
But I try even though nothing works. “Bring yourself together Henry, this is the voice telling you to collect yourself. I influence your decisions with an unpredictable whisper rocking you back & forth to your sooning sleep…shhhhhh, It will soon be over shhhhhhh…”
So that this may share what I saw or may see how this help will having been sent for humanity. It is done for something so outside of anything I am. I do not bare this weight for myself nor for those who keep my stay—it is theirs more than mine—but it is to it that I live. The it is why I forgo what I desire to be mine in the face of all that says this is yours. In time there is knowing and its counter. And for this it is I pray: please be with us as we begin to see.
It’s somewhat of an issue writing in darkness [to not be there for a possible future’s outside question] because of its blind purpose when you cannot see the hand crafting nor the sleeping eyes falling—these are the issues, and the consequence is this: heartfelt expression. Following in this sense there seems to be two kinds of artists: one is inside, “the inside artist,” the other is outside, “the outside artist.” These terms are somewhat linguistically counter-intuitive so here is the elaboration: the outside artist works in darkness and the inside artist works around material, fame, and corruption. You will find living examples of both. One is rampant and the other is always dying. One of which lives forever with a life assuredly short. I need only share one example of one type: his name is Buckethead. Through him I understand what I am, what I must do, and how I must do it.
Insiders do however hold purpose: a means to an end, money to spend and waste until death; their craft is to prolong one’s life to varying degrees of luxury, and they do, in fact, live longer lives. The insider forgoes value for length, luxury, and longevity. Their purpose belongs to them individually with their much forgotten selfless passion substituted with unfitting mechanisms to quiet the collective voice of our conjoined soul up to and after the breaking point of early, mid, and end-life crisis: “if I had only…”
The outside artist does not care for longevity; if length comes then so be it but she will not pursue anything but it. She accepts her spirit and knows herself and difference between want and must. She is a virtuosic maestro of pursuing blind, selfless passion—three. She understands her role and makes it her obligation to live and die for the transfer of what she knows to all of us and the greater sum.
My writing book and eye are almost parallel. There is a 20 degree angle between eye and it. I am laying down. Moments ago I swallowed three Trazadones. My covers are a collection of three. The degree of 20 makes for partial double vision and a cramped & cramping wrist. Trazadones are my prescribed sleeping aids, though I recently came to find out they are antidepressants. My blankets are multi-textured and multi-colored each with a proper order in layer but I have stopped caring to its form. The sleeping essay. My wrist hurts; it is a reoccurring ailment damaged earlier in my life by a campus police officer. The trazadones are not needed because I’ve been sleeping 18-20 hour days. I am losing but I am not lost. I don’t need help. I just need something, perhaps but exactly a restoration of my one through six. My days of high function remain but productivity is almost gone. The sleeping essay.
And the sheets. I would maneuver them properly if I cared enough. But why? When the sleep strikes I will intermittently wake and slightly adjust them while thinking about the chances I had earlier to set them proper. I have signaled with two fingers: my aid to travel has hit with a weight to my blink. My ship is docked and my crew awaits, “I am coming.” They wait for me, for the traz to call its captain who I understand to be subordinate to the ship.
“Will our waters be stiff, smooth, or violent,” the coming captain whispers.
“Trazadones” check the food storage: is there enough to warm our ship’s crew? Will their warmth keep us and them afloat? Feel the pillared mass of Grandmother’s hand knitted crosstitched blanket, then this thin white sheet precariously stained, and then finally touch this light cover of soft green encased in smooth fuzzies, having felt these things do you know if I & We will handle the coming sea? They have been violently mixed naturally and this formation essentially defines all: the ship, crew, water, captain, its destination.
I started a few days ago sleeping fully clothed, for two reasons: my blankets are inefficient; two, I just don’t seem to care. I am high-functioning with thought but increasingly my eyes absorb the words rather than the lined paper soaking in my ink.
It is all a mess. Sleep sets me free to adventure. It’s an addictive drug [sleep]. I try hard to adventure the same when awake; I try to be free yet in doing so my handcuffs grow tighter and heavier to the anchor keeping me at bay while my ship sails sails away. So then here is the image: me here with an old friend of pain in my right wrist, heavy lids, unequally covered surface, and ship out there leaving its captain behind behind so far away it leaves me behind.
I believe sleep is temporal death. Sleep is the nightly voyage with morning return. Death is the final voyage without return. Artificial death is to sleep 18-20 hours a day and take pills to keep into the sea longer.
It does not seem so terminal now, death. It seems death is the greatest adventure of all. Our ships come and go and come and go and then never return to the harbor of the shared harbor of living.
Lasts with the grains of packeted sugar one by one I can and will taste them all. For not one grain shall dissolve unappreciated, forgotten, or lost to the temptation of another’s sweetening titillation. To the exclusivity of my own tongue I dedicate this small red heart to cherish you always one by one your falling and melting into everything that I am—we will exist together, you pure sugar and I pure lover. Through you and us I have such new expectation for what may fuse, one by one as we fall and melt, one by one.
Mainstream rejects the living artist and praises her when she’s dead like they were an equally supporting part in her quiet triumphs over the shortcomings of mankind. They find hope in what she expressed; they create this illusion of false recognition with raised flags depicting her red colors with after-the-fact humanitarian inscribed notations of pride for what she, thus them, shared, thus they. And so collectively will they continue to trample over her in the direction of her coming to fall student, and he too will die underneath their reckless passing as just another to have been killed then rejoiced all the same.
And the student will see both falls; that of his teacher and the praise once she is gone. If death can be felt then we must say three, but it is neither his nor her intention to perform their calling out of contempt, and they will not. The crowd tramples forward. The artists see them coming, they feel them trampling. But beneath this, as the artist lays with her student watching from soon to be unsafe distance, she will say nothing as the student proclaims out of fear for what is coming, “you must save me!” and these will be the last words to which his teacher will hear, in sadness, her crippled arm outreaching & broken, “for love” she will gasp with the tears of so many soon to kill her again underneath the shedding of responsibility for the neglect and buried by these drying tissues, infinite as they are, to again do what has been done again to the son withering, hands clasped, knees to drop, back in which to lay, resolved: “come” he will say, “I am not done but I am ready; lives will be used to fight and so will they be used to take. As I struggle to breathe beneath your feets, though it hurts, so painful it is of such hurt, this is what I know I must do, as she did, and this is what our kind will always do: expression informant of conditions otherwise obstructed by a swift moving populace deadset in hopeless affairs of repetition to reject & to praise.”
Within human relationships we must be predictably kind. How we show this kindness it is healthy for unpredictability. Anguish and hate must be reserved for self-infliction. If you carry these things it is your task to turn the sword inward until you have mercy upon yourself. None of us should come into the error of granting mercy as this flaw should not exist among life—if it means the same, which it should, you will act out of kindness to others while silently destroying your current & capable pain inward, within your heart and mind, predictably so, and though this will hurt none but only you are deserving. This is a matter of skipping steps to the peace between one life to another. Predictably kind and predictably silent, unpredictable manifestation.
To say hello. “Hello.” See that wasn’t all so bad: “Hello.” “Hello there.” “Hello it’s a pleasure” “Hello you look pretty this evening” “Hello I like you” “Hello, just saying Hello” “Hello, no we haven’t met and I know we don’t know each other, just saying Hello” “I’m in the hello spirit, just saying hello: Hello” “Hello no we don’t but to be honest I was just practicing my hello, at first I didn’t think I could—but then I did—I said it, what, oh no I was still practicing just kind of first imagining I was vocalizing it then I took it to the next level and said it, ‘hello’ like a freaking boss—no, this was to myself—not you, not yet ;), and I said it like I was saying ‘Hello’ then I said it again, ‘hello’, but this time I looked in the mirror while saying it, long story short I became fascinated with helloing, there saying it in the mirror, and the funniest thing happened you’re really not going to believe this—no its funny, you will laugh maybe—no it really is—okay I think maybe I became stuck in a continium of Hellos, to the mirror and to the mirror back, “hello” “well hello” “hello friend” “and hello to you my friend” “hello good friend of mine” “hello even better friend of mine” “hello best friend” “hello bested friend forever and ever.”
Which will come to pass, mostly horrible in intention, and you will falsely so regrettably deny the entry to the few that will change and absorb your life so complete you will beg and beg for another to do the same.
And you will find emptiness; so promised am I to this emptiness and so sorry I am to your loss. I feel but do not regret your pain as just another who refuses to see who, in greatness, is possible among us. Currently I see your loss not of first but of second & distant sixth. I know you will regret and for that do I currently mourn.
Forever it is you who will remember my face and name and voice and say, “but he had something for me,” which I did, then, but no longer. If they were to know the fleeting they would know me more than partially. To them I feel a connected sadness regrettably so because it is they who grip with loose irrelevance to the loss they will soon so inevitably feel.
You will regret this night forever.
I openly speak of it, “and know it will be more than okay, it will be beautiful—the cycle—from beginning to end. Such is life and the cycling of the universe. Without being forced that is the key; both whether forced by a fearing resistance or a premature fearing haste. The choice—my choice—is choice and I will make it when, by trust through myself, the time has come. I am a part of the universe thus I am universal; stage one, stage two. Come to recognize how beautiful it is, internally within the mind of self, and when the time comes, when the universe is ready so will be you—naturally. We must first live as parts before becoming the sum. A Twinkle in the Universi of impending adjoinment to the shared whole, no words other than beautiful may describe this end to which all will rise.”
There’s something you need to know; it may explain my future. I will, one day, have my beautiful end. If you understand the sacrifices so many people have made to keep me alive, if you could understand how I need to carry this weight each day, each morning, every noon, to end my continued hurt to the universe I love.
If you could understand how it makes no sense—to end a life for the sparing of those who loved you—and yet I find this within my dots, undeniably so it is there within my cards. The weight increases as I grow weaker. I now feel even the hurt of others outside of myself, and it makes no sense why I should feel as responsible as I do, but if you could only understand how true these words are to you. The shifting weight to more and more has given momentum to now an unreturning force hastened with more. There is a collective light and I can now see it when strong enough to let it penetrate and pull my eyes downward. But I am okay! Purposeful living requires this, and so blessed am I to have recognized my calling to be blinded by the collective and pursue my inner vision with radical innocence. I cry now just as I will then, for you and for my failure to be stronger.
No one but I may enter this door for it is mine and no one may enter. A door given by the kind life long subset into subset down further into the subjects of subsets lies a door of self. For each of us has this door though most but few will ever come to its step. I may not see it if life runs out before I make to it, though I will tell in the present I can feel its presence, as a force pulling toward a dark light inside calling this name.
And when I am dead it’s important you know this: I love you. Always have, always will in my imperfect perfected way: two.
A day so far away you will. You will indeed. But whose day will it be? Will it be mine? Will it be yours? Nothing to say it isn’t ours, what it could, or what they have come to say will never be. So alone I am, a trail of smoke vapor here then gone did anyone see it? So quiet to think of my disappearance as a vanished squelch of dissipation? How long will they mourn? I need so much and much is given but still so much is not. The not is for naught, the smoke will indeed rise regardless but for how long? Must I remind it is finite, must I remind! Alone yes it makes sense. So despairingly so is this despair of want while I watch this smoke of mine leave and leave to be gone only in dark memory.
How all of us can find obscurity socially? To this being normal is socially profound. How must we live collectively with finding so many versus our one. Moment to many moments or whole life to the relative perspective, we encounter the shallow connections leading to shallow sex. Condoms do not protect you from the permanent surfacing of your soul. Perhaps not all but many for sure so commit to this so would I observe. For me this is foreign as it will stay: foreign. For this is the consequence, and in this context, it is much on the behalf of good, so pleased am I to be so distant from this—it is not me, so fortunately so it is not.
But why? Why must I bear this disconnect on my own with it assuredly being a passing terminal weight—and no doubt it assuredly is distant—forever so and so clearly so, it is not me. To return to the darkness is my future preside, and to this future presiding at this time I welcome open-heartedly, so longingly its coming shadowing darkly-filled return.
How could have I questioned? So easy the answer is seen. For love it is this I walk while asking “to this we must bring never has a message been so clear”—perhaps this is my final say though in dissatisfaction will I wake. The cycle then continues. For you it will not be this way. For it is you in which I believe change is possible, if you would only believe as I do.
My pocket; hello there. You and I, no, no it will not and never be thus. Nor I nor will you though as you may try, both will us, but never will anything be.
It is you which relies on the inheritance of normality in which you bring, to the table, so normal it is, so distant I see it to be.
The loss, it is almost mutually felt—but it isn’t. What you feel within me is not what I feel; nor is it complacent nor is it reciprocal. This loss, profound as it may or may not be, you will feel it whereas I will not.
Your name you insist, the thing you wish upon my attention is for naught. Neither will I remember nor will people care. I will not nor will I, care. Pretentious as though it may sound or it may be, I speak what it seems as a truth. See? Your infection of doubt spreads. To spread and I am its killer. Killed before it began. Nothing has been considered nor will it.
The complex question requires thought to answer with conviction yet it is you and the people in which you belong bring it so quickly, upon me, repulsively, and it feels so invasive. What of your peers? I do hope I am not considered, as a peer?
“This is the 21st Century,” is theme. It is theme because it defines who I am, who you are, and what context you and I are both within, “I am 21st”; say it. Say it and you will feel better, like you belong to something greater than the sectioning of land, scratching of name, and the interhuman persecutions of correct truth. The unbelonged feeling you have, within this context, allows your travel to better times and eras more suitable to your ideally individualized principle of life and practice. Wikipedia, the world’s greatest and most accessible library to ever exist, lends us visions of better historic placement. It is special: alone with no effort you can find the way of your collection of seven—and of better ways of life within your time. Shoddy television offers blips of escaping delusions to the reality that so many of us find as miserable and corrupt, for there the greed of corporate giants become friendly faces with cheeky advertisements in that disgusting realm. There the faces of mortality elevate to superior life-forms seen by us who have the opportunity of watching them eat, live, and converse inside meaningless voids that otherwise should be reverberated within their own walls and never to make contact with us and the shared world. They spread a virus of unsatisfaction, unproductivity, and want for something which we will not and never, most likely have. And youtube, the world’s greatest cesspool of interhuman literary relations, professional theater, and platform for amateur cinematographers to spread budding film-artistry, kills our time with an imbalanced moderation of pleasant, mostly low entertainment. Few know how to stop from video to the next. Moderation: admittedly and unadmittedly, most do not have. This causes a disruptive shift within the balance of productivity and entertainment. The longer they kill their time the more their lives become irrelevant. It is a tool; it is not a breathing machine.
So to these men, women, and children how many become their unbecoming? Unbecoming, an unraveling of what is meant for their talent and gift, something in which we all possess, the shared opportunity of greatness without exclusion to the most privileged and the most impoverished. And, if I may, the potential of privileged life to unbecome far exceeds the impoverished, so in this sense most of us are in the better situation though some or most still have an unraveling life, and some have unraveled onto their death beds, having been born, lived without purpose, and then died or soon to die just the same as a seed never eaten nor planted. This is mortality. It is not something to cover with makeup and mask. The aging raveled will stand proud, will begin to slouch proud, and will fall into the darkness just the same, prideful but not without an equal portion of the healing virtue of humility. “In sickness and in health,” is the beautiful story of so many, to say and to tell, yet the difference is in the blood within those who choose to shed before all, before the public to see its redness and feel its iron.
This work is 21st and it neither carries weakness nor complacency; “The internet is serious business,” so ironic the oversaturation says, “no,” is what we and I will say, “no, you are wrong,” because the internet is two but fool’s garden and master’s domain. In all things, seriousness is relative, and if this motto implies nothing nothing important can be done with cold face, slanted brow, and half-dilated pupils with a staring intensity to withstand no superior save the sun, then yes to say no is the correct shift to bringing a legitimacy to this virtual realm, a sovereign nation without color, border, or politicians. We do not choose to stand back and let them take what is ours, banning this banning that, making laws here and laws there, filling pockets there and emptying pockets here. “No taxation without representation,” came down to war and such will be the story of the 21st, a push and pull of stacking world crisis, something gives and everything falls. I have a pride for my country but it is, at the least, matched with a humility for this internet plane; one forces adoption and the better allows the transformation of spirit. Their pride, my partial, is to cement and preserve scrutinized consistency and forever unadaptability, forever unsustainability; their humility, my whole, teaches the universe.
How do we empower the internet–without mask or makeup—to open vulnerably without separation from who we are and what we mean to do with this situation of compromised hope and future for the children and their children’s children, the aging and aged depending and dependent on us to ease them into their final sleep– to abandon the partiality to pride and obligation, to transfer its energy into the virtual realm of so much humility? Perhaps with silent step, 1′s and 0′s, and pledged selves to die for this world colony suffering from the mistakes of our current and former leaders and institutions.
Let me share with you the possibilities of seriousness, or maybe I will do the exact opposite and undercut everything I say with irony. Maybe this work doesn’t exist at all, just a vapor-trail of rebellious contextual text posted somewhere in the vaults of internet time underneath the moldy unappreciation of geocity websites, to be seen or unseen without significance, a giant form of imperiousness built on layers and layers of transcendental composition. Maybe I will just collect a flowing copy of good sounding words and ask you to make sense out of them, a tribute to sophisticated delusional rhetoric examined under the eyeglass of eyes peering into the emptiness of its subject.
For free. Our system emphasizes the success of individuals; our system de-emphasizes the success of humanity and future life within and beyond our narrow detail of aligned DNA. Being so genetically gifted with inherent inquisition to ask why and how, humans are or should be or should have been role models, real-problem-solvers planting walkable stones within a naturally decomposing swamp inherently always with gifts of adaptation and resolution. So contrary is this to the love we face as a united planet and mind. The lock is the lock we bare having solidified an altogether predictable end: extinction of sub-species, the vanishing of parts, the disappearance of our rigid stone, the quick changing of swamp into sand, and the vanishing of this beautiful mind capable of so much love, peace, and progression.
My beloved ax. I gave it for 15% of its true value and spent its reborn new monetary non-music making manifestation of life on heart breaking necessarily consumable food. The water was free—a pathetic isolated perk bestowed by a shitstain of landlord to ease its pissed off patrons for lack of functioning appliances. Does this man know pots and pans require heat to prepare food? Eating raw eggs is not the same as scrambled eggs dashed with pepper and dime sized quantities of salt.
Can be forced or self-induced; I’ve proven this to myself and do not care for your opinion arguing against, as strong-willed as you may seem to be in moments much like clarity, though false they will be within context. “Sorry, not listening” I will say without sorry. For individual truth is as real as this shared mind and to nothing no one can argue against.
There is a battle of addiction taking place within the shared mind. Just as weather forms rust to the chains of a neglected bike, addiction is weathering the parts of our sum. And it is causing damage to the future. While we possess incredible power, individually, our individual parts are subject to points of no return, and it hurts not just our future self but our collective self. Despite this the universe will grind through failing parts, breaking them and requiring more from its neighbors having lost another to erosion, to addiction, to a collective weakness for the want of present self in light of past selves and in utter darkness to the future selves.
Listen loudly to the soft peace of morning birds gathering seed. Listen to them. Hear the violence of wind passing through its trees and watch as the newborn is pushed out from its nest into the hard ground below.
The universe understands loss. Its continued movement forward will not be deterred by your failure. But we, the parts, will always be punished for your lack of collective, individual responsibility.
Nothing is owed to the part. This is why tragedy occurs. But tragedy is not always outside of our capability to bring out. With great shame the breaking part must listen to its loud destruction and hear the collection cast it into obscurity—to watch the forward movement become a moment painful.
All will stop eventually but how? Roots: feet into the earth, temple into the heavens. Feel your life in this way, for yourself, for us, and for our sum; never stop accepting your fourth.
Do not make the error of hiding, rejecting, or neglecting where you came from, what you’ve done, what you’ve believed, who you’ve hurt, who you’ve loved, where you’ve been, who you’ve left behind, who you’ve failed, how you’ve wronged, when you’ve supported, and the rest that comes in sight when you turn around, to the left, to the right, and downward.
It doesn’t take a lifetime to become wise, though it may. Do not listen to what people say of you, for to fall before their knees also means that you’ve stopped journeying through the domain which belongs solely within you, for you.
Cast out your peers. One by one, exponentially, for it is the true wise who utterly, completely believe that he or she has none. Not to be above not to be below, just different altogether existing in the individual dimension of black darkness, sight only given to see not beyond one’s own hand. Books in limited supply may be read, selectively, carefully to be read, but not to be completely absorbed. The matter is not of reverting to a humanic zero nor is it to stay within the humanic contemporary. Create but do it with balance and confidence. Isolation and loneliness awaits but such is the consequence of this making sense because it makes sense to be alone at the forefront of this fatal jungle.
A time or two has passed and to this I implore: above all things respect your mother. She is the audience in which “you can’t please everyone” breaks; if she is broken so must you be, for it is you and only you, your brothers, and sisters, who can and have the power to put her back together. Do not disrespect her: if she is lost then you must lead her to the intention of your goodwill. Above all do not abandon your mother, for she is it, your creation, and your sacrifice. Never an unkind word, never destructive; your goodness in self radiates from her life internally unto you, she the immediate creator, she the immediate connection between you and the universe. Betray her and you will stand before the whole as a negative, irregardless to the everything in all of us: the everything which bares the button, the everything that encompasses our love. Destruction never; deconstruction always if your heart knows better. It is your life which will protect and save. There will be no mercy upon you have you no mercy unto her.
You must die holding her hand save the face of opposition you both will stand. A protection through marriage is a falsehood; it is her and through her that all will be saved from the impending destruction of you both. Save each other from being lost to the trying of giving up.
There is nothing in which betrayal is justified. Your betrayal rings loudly against the seventh and it is you, and your brothers & sisters to whom must guide her with the intention of complete love-giving unto the end. There is always a choice, here you may save or despair her. Do not despair: the mother is it and everything, to forget the immediate creator is to forget all. Do not do this.
We are all children of her knowing not or knowing; all who destroy this universal truth must destroy themselves and face the reckoning of the shared. Their despair is what will ring to the past, present, and future—she and only she through all of you must there be—unto the end.
Individual prosperity is not yours to live save nothing for what is told. You are not alone here though by choice you may decide, for free will does exist, there is no predestination, no plan in which there is to make of you, the daughter or son of her, your mother.
The father may guide for he too is under the same spell. But it is not he who decides nor is it he to whom our lives are dedicated. He and all of you—all of us—are by guaranteed birth required by the eternal to protect, love, and take with end of our path to which she has given life to all residing under her umbrella and rain & under her son and sky.
There was and never will be nothing for him and her to those by choice choose to betray their mother. To this end, I and we are bound unto her. Forever we must deal with our decision to follow, to guide, and to reconstruct the greater to which nothing existed before.
There is never an end to this, never a resolution nor a victorious fight in which to win. My life is not mine to give up nor mine to give in, as role of son, I am here and to whom I must save is forever now inherently clear. Save the beautiful face who creates this life and all life unto my end and yours. This I owe, this I live. Forever.
This being an example of life for the more proliferation of our young and old. Into the future. We go with recorded footsteps in size, shape, beginning, direction and end. To be continued. Indefinitely by those for which these examples are set outside of the vacuums in which our families preside.
The subject of money. What we wish, what we do, and how we feel about money defines one example humanity has with which to choose.
It’s made in China. To think this dime sized tag of plastic gold has seen more culture and traveled greater distances than I but not for the wiser it is. For it is nothing else than formulaic mind of plastic. It is not even a key. Just something intent on traveling the world to travel once again by losing its owners wearers interest, so much so that laws of thermodynamics break down even the most attached of things due altogether due to the neglect of unimportant things. Just as I choose to neglect health & balance for small focused things—once thinking each were gold—I also will deliberate to know its truth of matter of fact value to question over the course of this life. And when life has ended for me I shall pass this debate of interest unto you—thus give, thus take?
Jerry will I ever see you again, will you return? How easy is it to learn and forget of course to the moral [period]. To the righteous, to the wrong; after thyself beginning within mind. Yes you will learn the first is also and will be your last. How incredibly vast this mind can be as with all minds, so beautifully so beautiful at the cost of a silent current sooning to grip upward.
Where are my people?
How long have I felt the unbelonging; how long have my people been there without me; how long. Intrinsically we know, the each of us, if we are amongst our people, just as we, even the color blind, know instantly the color of black versus the color of white. And yet we find ourselves stuck amongst those who are not within our tribe; and yet we find our lives are being spent with strangers and enemies, each and all burning their intrinsic signs to blend with one another. We then must wear burn marks for flags while at the same time witnessing others who are joined with gloriously harmonic signs. And when we see these other people being amongst their intrinsic people we can’t help but think, the each of us, that something must be wrong—not with the wrong crowd we have found ourselves pledging to—but with ourselves, the worst of which who may feel their people do not exist, some kind of intrinsic isolation to forever living unbelonged.
Ah but if we could all know there is a tribe for us all! How much hope for ourselves it could bring; how much hope it would give to so many with miserable lives being led not by intrinsic suffering by birth but by the easy fact of it being caused by the self-afflicting burn with crude and foreign red knife to the glorious signs of our intrinsic tribe. This then means there exists two peoples for us all: by birth the natural and by force the unnatural. How long have we been burning away who we are; how long have we forgotten the search. To be a member of the burning tribe is to be a member of that which does not belong. Remember: each day you conform to strangers and enemies is treason to that of your people, wherever they may be but so assuredly I tell you they are. Stop before it is too late because one day it will, in fact, be too late.
I don’t see why people like you fit their way into my life and leave just the same. Am I that horrible. Do I deserve such quick attention and such quick fleet. I’ve grown cautious and more so because of people and friendships such as this, you all will be the death of me. Stepping into the proclaimed monologue is the joke but it’s my life, all with who come in and see revert to the same. I am embarrassed to think something different is possible. I will go on as a paranoid self destined for isolation and rebuttal, and you with others will partially continue my hidden demise. Without words or emotion or feeling you destroy what is possible in me. To another conversation, another joke, another rumor, another misunderstanding I will be to you as you will, spread the monstrosity I know I am forever to all of you.
Unprioritized: Do away with expectations. They inhibit your ability to succeed in the moment. They stop the universe from being okay; they demand the universe to accommodation otherwise all is lost nothing is good. Do not expect the unexpected—do not expect, do toil. Work forward with the universe and let go of what is not yours to control. Put in the time but do not expect a return. Clear your present agenda to a commitment of honest labor—clear your life to purposeful living.
Engaging expectation is the battle against three worlds: your mind, the minds of others, and the universe. You are wasting energy. Expectations are the collective battle of all three and hardly do they ever align. They fall short, they exceed, and they meet, a slight mask to the hunt of failure.
This is Justin. I began writing tonight because my current life is a mess. The rules of engagement are to let go of all expectations. I am fighting the universe by fighting against the present moment with visions, hopes, and dreams of better next moments. I have 16 likes on the Chronicles fanpage. I check the number and feel contempt. I check it again and again. Did anyone respond to my facebook post? No not yet, nope still nothing, okay its been a day alright I hate all of you.
This is against the only rule of engagement: to not expect. It’s harder to abandon than most inherent flaws. This essay—hi—is a projection of my personal struggle. I take fractions of each second to build upon defected and future potential success. Defect from expectation and it will enhance your moment’s conviction. You will live a freer life with less constraints shutting down what you could have or should have done. Expecting is fear of the universe; not expecting is love of the universe. Spend your life loving the universe and your plot of land will yield the full potential of your destined harvest.
Stop the questions and stop the affirmations; do what calls and nothing more. Devote all of your time to the call and be dynamic with its change. This is the universe and that is your life, take care of it, our collective world depends upon it, the shared reality exists because of your three.
The healing virtue of expectation is hypersensitivity to breathing. The conscious breather is reminded of the moment with each pull and release of air. Breathe in the moment and release the expectation. Breath with discipline and exhale with momentary freedom. All life is the stacking of moments; unconscious life is the stacking of huge blocks according to the tripartial state of plans: the unsuccess, the success, and the future; conscious living is the stacking of sand grains planless and shapeless but with whole precision of each grain’s perfect place. Breathe to breathe, moment by moment, day to day, week to week, month to month, year to year, the blocks will increase in size and so will follow the rising expectation.
Practice hypersensitive breathing; do it right now and feel your future worries dissolve. Do what you need to do right now, do it with care and place the grain where it is needed, float down the dissolving expectations and become the dynamic self light enough to pursue your moment to moment calling only you can hear and only you can follow.
It all begins and ends with purposeful air.
It’s just a question. When I lose my mind where does my loss go? This is a legitimate wonder of mine. It has to go somewhere; it stays for a time then leaves then returns showing continued age matching the rest as if it had never left at all.
No loss is a choice. This is why it is called a loss and not something else like a sacrifice, a fifth, a substitute, or just natural everyone dies except the universe.
Perhaps the universe has exception perhaps it still only knows love and fear but lives with choice. We are talking about ultimates reduced: everyone dies the universe forever lives.
You and I make predestined, random, rational, irrational, lucky, coincidental, collective, regretful, optimal, and sacrificial choices within the constraints of a closed spectrum blocked in by birth and death. The universe has no spectrum and no adjectives to which confine its choice.
Our spectrums are 3Dimensional with millions of blocked in equally long segments running every which way through the center point: the sphere of human spectrum. Any segment can become the focal North and South polar. It is free like that. We interpret our lives like that. Life and death are the polars in context.
So we, a collective congregation of spheres are inside a planet sphere made possible by an energy sphere holding together a solar sphere in part of a birthing and dying galactic sphere with possible immediate death sphere in the middle pulling everything circular toward its spherical placement along the infinite universal spectrum continuing forever and indefinite much like the life of a man or woman until the moment he or she accepts his or her closed spectrum that death is coming, life is fleeting, and all or nothing will be lost unless it is true we are a part of the universe and out of love it will heal our impending fears with unlimited loving replenishment forever and indefinite.
Take care of your teeth the blind man says, a man and figure of evolved peace said to a crowd exceeding into the hundreds if not thousands, he there in a wheelchair having said something simply and dearly important: the care of one’s teeth [is it too late?].
“Your life is one and so that is of your teeth; do you treat them well do you?” “All is not lost” he said in that chair broadcasting to thousands if not millions, “Your teeth,” he said, “reflect more than you can imagine” [disciplined, responsible, long-sighted, wise-sighted, self-sighted, long-termed, long lived?]
Three times brush with once a floss once a special rinse twice an antiseptic and once a tongue scrape. This is now what I do after having recovered from the false impression of premature false teeth blues, of all is lost, all 10% decaying and all 90% shining, to the decay breaks spirits and splinters the teeth you still have.
It’s okay to be a person of all or nothing. Among the various personalities this should receive no persecution for being different. If I say you are like me and this do not waste time balancing [not yet]. Instead quite simply encourage the head after heels, correctly positively long-term, pursuit of healthy well teething. “Brush them whole-heartedly,” he said again and again while his masked assistant quieter again rolled him back, slowly, into the darkness of stage one.
In the second summer of my undergraduate semester at college I enrolled in two classes: one of which I do not remember on call, the second of which was a history class taught by a late-defect history professor of whose name neither matters nor is remembered, much like the three credit hours forgotten and held within circled bubbles on multiple choice tests now trashed or recycled but most likely trashed because I don’t think I cared too much about the environment, only the animals, fish, and insects within—quite hypocritical I know but such is the life of the socially inept struggling individual to assimilate.
I am in the correct place just as I was in the correct back then within that one summer ago somewhat fleeting of memory, but the big block however will persevere: the block created by the professor long ago lost—he is not either of the professor’s described in the unthesis [those two are self-portraits had I not defected as early as I did].
I imagine most forgive their lack of capability to recognize the correct self-placement. There’s two things requiring the necessity of thought or consideration by you. Your dilemma is whether or not pre-destination is true and if any related current belief affects your future life. This is not confusing. To recognize if you are correctly placed currently you must currently discover how you feel about the way events play out for you. For some true recognition, for very little, will know they are correct; for others this will not be clear to varying degrees of I think to panic to crisis to breakdown, only applicable to the truly currently reflecting as I am doing right now.
The second thought is more a question: “do I feel correctly placed within the Interval of this moment between breath, current intake & outtake?”; “Do I know I am correct?”; one decides quickly and easily if one forgoes inhibitions of doubt, unassuredness, and self doubt. The way is to ask internally outloud, “am I where I’m supposed to be? Is this my correct placement in life this second?” It is important to focus on the immediate moments as you focus on a moving obstacle of always disappearing memory. Ask yourself the question of placement right now. How do you feel having asked the question? You did ask right?
The limited answer is yours to keep. There are two significances: first, your answer, second, your evolving understanding of peace, the product of one accepting his or her direction and doing whatever it takes this moment to the next with a working conviction of translating confidence, “this second is where you belong,” and, “why is this the correct self-placement for you?”
This is the practice of maximizing one’s life to the micro second. In time you will have an accessible map of your life’s journey to always be seen by you with peace amongst tears, laughter, and wisdom.
The history professor is wrong about all of us being the same. The presence of individual correct placement destroys his late-defected belief of extreme commonality; there is one correct with each being holding exclusive ownership to our partial whole.
Now go forth into the day and night and act with your essential purpose. Don’t reject anything; all it takes is a slight pivot of one’s foot to change the direction of life and the translating wisdom calling to the men, women, and children in your flank.
And the loss of self. Losing one’s identity is within our potential of evolution. It can happen multiple times or none at all. Becoming Henry now and again is a choice, one which requires a certain courage to enter an unknown filled with horrific monsters and uncertainty.
This is why the appearance of weathered skin cannot render a judgment for one’s knowledge, evolution, or wisdom. Time & Age is for the immortal. The flesh thrives and decays but a print on the moon will last forever, a sentence written in stone to speak at value when and always given the chance.
We are all born as Henry. Most spend their whole lives fleshing out this single birth and those that do hoard facets, knowledge, and facts alongside other fleshed-out single birthed Henrys. They seem wise and appear to have made it far into the journey of self-discovery. Almost all live this way as well as die this way, unevolved single Henrys with pseudonyms.
And there is choice. All of us now & then are exposed to the full potential of seemingly devastating regression—to become Henry, by choice & by courage, to lose everything inside, or, in reality, to let go of which has become irrelevant to the requirements of an unknown, dangerous path seen possible. Static or dynamic; static or hypocritical; static or evolved; static or brave; static or free.
To help you understand: there will come times in your life that you must move. In these times you will have a single choice between two choices: take all or some of what you’ve acquired up to that point with you, or, take nothing.
Do not be short-sighted or weak during these times. I tell you all but few choose Henry once more or again & again. Because it seems like regression, especially so if with the visibility of your peers continuing into the next while you have less than little. But it is not this way. The act of becoming Henry is the act of defecting from the safely beaten path laid flat by the weight of the fleshed out singles. To defect requires a nimble almost weightless self. Those with sack and wagon become stuck in the jutting branches, if they were to try, but you a reborn Henry can fit and slide through them toward the growls of fatal danger separating you from enlightenment.
I am not enlightened but I am headed that way. I’ve succumb to the surrender of Henry several and more times. It is a fatal way of life but I am not dead. Not dead but I will soon be such having either reached enlightenment or having died headed that way. There is always a choice; now choose. I may never reach the enlightenment but I know that is where I am headed; and if I may die before breaking through others in my flank surely will do.
There are times of articulation and this is not one—bleep bloop, the sound of communication un-understood. It’s just noise: chirp of a bird, meow of a cat, mow of a lawn, silence of a falling leaf, remorse of a tree being cut, collective satisfaction of team victory, ring of a phone, rustling of a morning paper, clicks from a mouse, taps from a board, movement of a sliding pawn, the gallop to a fortified knight, the sigh of rejection in bathroom, the clipping of hair, the thinning of muscle, a shake of two hands, the pounding of fist against glass, a shreek of terror, a smile seen by a forgotten love, the creaks of a teenager sneaking out, the jingle of parents keys, the shushing of inappropriateness at church, the wet claps of dirty animal fucking, the lost steps of a silhouette leaving and coming back alone…
“Oh the conversations we’ve had, oh the little time we’ve shared”
While I view what came to be, the making of art through imagination increases the level of spontaneity. My life ownership has transcended; the dues paid by so many others in sacrifice have fused into the alive presentation of myself at the forefront of this newly pathed pioneerment into charity. Confront the beautiful sadness of love—it makes all things possible. I am concerned some of you will listen too much. Actually I am frightened for us all. So please take what has passed through me as a passing capable by all. This is a transcription of what went through, verbatim, this shared self. Through that window, I see me see you through this reflection of window. You see me; I see you; why must this reflection stop us from seeing each other and why must everyone not you be here on this side, through this window of beltish torment enclosed in the sea of human bee. Mostly sad: not I, the sea. I see lots of pain, lots of temperance to the struggle forgiven to them by societal pressures to reshape and reshape according to a false will. I use imitators because they are fillers of projection. I make examples using them out of love for others to help them understand the value of creation. I invite you into this area of my heart and along these tense nerves of my stomach so you may understand something so great and beyond our shared self that it can only be communicated by a timeless fascination observed through a skilled interpreter and created by the same mind. There is nothing more energizing than fleeting moments of romantic pursuit and loss; both it seem end with pain but not all, it seems, end. I disappear and reappear and disappear; I am not the forever as my life is so clearly temporal. There is one devotion and it is outside of myself, for the rest of me I give to what fascinates. I write because I know it’s my thing, the only thing, I can do with my life and possibly achieve the greatness of Buckethead’s guitar. Me with poet’s hands and pen and miscellaneous writing situations I believe—in it—with a thin string I refuse to let go, wrapped around my finger I’d lose it before unraveling what is mine to have, the only mine, to have. Through time we have expanded great distances and greater subsets; this, all it is, this is the retraction to the unified whole singularity—there will be no loss, there will be only witness to the exceedment of the cage fighter that never was; to the present physical fraction of a former self; to the former mental fraction of the present self.
When I say Goodbye
Know it is indeed the end though I may in fact come again. But it will be false, this second coming. Empty it will be, for me it will, though I guarantee for you, the goodbyed, it will be your beginning and moment for you to see into who I am and who I was to you so ignorantly then will I watch upon your so human then and now you will be seen by me, so frail and naive I will have seemed to be. But not now, then when I have said goodbye, to you.
Have I said goodbye to you? Not to him nor her but to them—the goodbyed—it is real, was real, do you see it now?
Feel this word and know it is forever. Give me your hand, give me your heart, for now and then I will take you for what you were, and with this pain, I will share unto you for you unto yourself to thank and deal with in your eternity. My sincerity in this regard continues out of this forever obligation because without the calling I could not handle how much I loathe to die.
Do you remember: do you know? I was there but you were not. You are there, now or then, but I am not, only in fleeting memory will I be, to you, forever in it I say goodbye having gained and lost the same without your immediate reciprocity. Soon it will be felt by you and by you alone, to them and to them it will be felt forever: goodbye.
And again, I am so sorry. I will not bare this weight that you will carry forever. I am sorry as sorry can be. I know through history what regret does though I no longer understand or feel what it is that you will soon, forever, understand and feel. It is with so much remorse that I give you this memory of pain, of anguish for revision of what cannot be revised. I would give my life for your sparing, if it were to save you from what you will soon—sooner or later feel—forever.
I speak of forever so often and through the universe I understand what forever means. It is for this I am filled with so much false temporal regret that I have bestowed this unto you.
Please hear me when I proclaim to your heart that I understand. So beautiful it is that you are—I see and know this beauty, particularly and so specifically do I know your beauty. Simpática: the beauty of inward and outward, so I know so much more than you know, that you could know, that you’ve could have known. Imagine I cry invisibly with you now gone, how much I temporarily feel for the forever loss that you will soon face. Remember how much I was there and remember how much I forever am, as a shoulder, for which you may always rest your soft head and hand in comfort, though it will always be void of reciprocity.
This though despite it all will never be the end of my presence for I still am here as I will always be, here. Once to you and once to them, forever as such forever will be. Goodbye:
It will tease you with a false joy, “come, I laugh, come inside me I plead for it.” But you won’t. It is advised. The presence of something different other than which you belong will surely consume you, and this—“the consumption”—is what you shall fear, the unbecoming of what you thought you were before the presence of what you wish to become.
That is the magic. Remember the alchemist: the one who pursues awareness, perhaps enlightenment and change within the world of self, perhaps universally. It is he or she that pursues it despite the knowing awareness of what she knows and once knew: “I will pioneer” is what she will say, is what I know so many will say in spite of so much living otherwise.
And it’s the crowding of so much living otherwise that will force her into an unquenchable life of pure desire for what he projects he has; it’s everything, “I know it, I want it,” “my insides are wet with the thought of it, him, what he is and how he lives, who he will be and how he will leave, where he is going and where he will have gone.” Simply everything in the world inside her will float with a life that smiles toward him but her game will have passed him by as he has already moved away but not far enough to not hear her late call—sorrowfully he answers “no never over never.”
I remember you I remember you well. Curious smile right there curious indeed how could I forget? Hard to forget something like that something like that smile how could I forget something like that something like that something something like that so curious indeed ah yes that smile that smile right hard to forget I remember I remember you well ah yes I remember you well.
Don’t lose it the beckoning will be gone for forever and ever if you so choice to ignore its call. Asleep you rest and a single comet burns across your dreamy field, you do not see it because you are asleep underneath an overlay of exotic color infinite of reality bending colored prism. They come to you without sight, when you sleep, and the flashing thoughts quickly fade or become radically obscure dream objects, soon again to be lost…
November 30th 11:52 PM
To this night marks the end of these transcriptions [not true]. Here tonight my body has grown weak to the subjection of the social underputting. My mind is tired the same—I am weak and the universe knows I am depleted. Weathered and beaten. I am almost broken. To ask another day out of me would be to request my death. And yet I find life each day given by the shared mind layered so thin on the bottom of a dried-out desperation for salvation. I find or am given life and to this night I will again deplete myself to a visible zero invisible surviving fraction almost now understood as guaranteed. I call these things “anchors” and “strings.”
To this call marks a need for self-defiance, a new word meaning to die every day in pursuit of dreams declared by absurdly convictious self-proclamation. I will laugh in the face of balance and die in the field of extremes. More than ever this night will test the validity of my direction toward the vision.
Awareness of Relativity
Comes with great ease. Take a look with me, take a book to your life and read: “My prone position; I am prone.” Nothing metaphorical or literal, just lyrical—proneness. Enter its reality and lay down upon your back with heart exposed to the passing struggles.
What is Reality? Reality, practically, is relativity. Reality without relativity is what we so wish to claim, the lot of us: “the independence of ourselves to one another”—a care of life next to nothingness comforted with blank spirits emitting soft but empty whispers of significance. The awareness of relativity fills out the immane hole with a truth we can accept.
I will tell you a small story about chess now. For a year a man studied the game of chess with textbooks and software annotated by Grandmaster chess players, the highest rank achievable. His study was coupled with play, albeit isolated, but play nonetheless—virtual boards, global competition—cycling strangers appearing with pseudonym and leaving just the same. He enjoyed competition. The study and play of chess, though remote, filled a loneliness—perhaps distracted him from it—with digital apparatuses requiring his attentive focus, if he were wanting to win and learn—which he did—learn to win [and lose].
That same year he moved to a townhome adjoined with six other townhomes. A neighbor introduced himself and the man returned his gesture but all the two heard were each other’s pseudonyms of online chess play. Both plunged into friendship with handcrafted boards, pieces, and pawns, squares alternating dark & light, plus bits of light green powder and leaf occasionally wedged into corners for future smoke. They played and so began the rise of their relative awareness—how well they played chess, individually.
The man was soon distinguished by both to be the better player. Stylistically different, each with different arsenal and tactic, but decisively different in skill level. They played frequently moreso increasingly every week. The neighbor hailed the man’s skill with endless compliments. The neighbor understood his game. Through his neighbor, the man too began to understand his own game. He had a new identity: a chess player. He studied and played with his neighbor. He became great.
Then his neighbor moved away with the man’s relativity. When he left so did the man’s well-respected chess persona. He left and the reality without relativity settled with the empty chair ahead split between a prized chess board empty with his neighbor’s fallen king degrading into board dead next to the dying man in front.
Hear the empty man sit alone without relativity. He had become great but now his relativity was gone—thus so was he. His new identity turned pale then transparent then disappeared, before him, in his chair with so much emptiness around and inside him.
Reality breaks people. It is a quick and permanent break with an internal snap visible to the self and others. The broken rebuild but on top of what they once were—to live and die then be rebirthed on the life given by death. I hope someone is listening because I have both reality and relativity and I feel more than nothing, I am so sorry but it is fleeting.
The return comes with time. If you can defeat time you can defeat your return. The return to meaning comes with time but you remember were you came from, what you once were, and who and what is giving you your meaning. And when the time is gone you will have understood the cycle of our reality, the awareness of relativity trapping and freeing you, a darkened silhouette casting an isolated shadow directly into the window opposite of the neighbor’s fallen king in front.
The friends we share; the man sitting in the shadows of an overhead fluorescent and the men and women laughing beyond. Who knows who? The man sits under the social pressure of knowing nothing but wishing to connect with something more; the fifth stands outside the four connecting with obvious illusion of something more; the four play, two on two, man and man versus woman and woman, two know only two, one knows three, all take in unison to the happy fee of friends unbeknownst, to the drinks hoping and blending them into more; just as the end has met, the lights shut not fade, all six will go, will separate into the individual artificial light pursuing beyond us all. Go here, you will go there; lead the way it will follow.
How much noise will the group tolerate and how little will we know: the man who listens, the fifth who blends, and the four who in twos will lead? All wish for the thing we came: to the bleaking light of shared progress is why we came.
The man who suffers in the shadows is separate, the unknown unwritten artist scribed without knowing for literally the time of humanity to contemplate, scribed and sketched by the man with a false moon leading his pen up down and across fro the physical soon to be eternal, to be read infinitely perhaps maybe but possibly not for all the mix of six who know not how conjoined in this moment they will forever be. And how many times can the man write these last words, already again and again, how long is it before he feels satisfied to the sound of his pen glowing false moon.
I’m not sure what it means. Neither he nor I: “forever,” forever and forever it seems so right, so at peace it is to say this in the face against so much that you, he, and I now feel. “To be temporal” – “I am temporal and I know forever” – to say this, to believe in a forever—to say it—to feel I know in forever existence and also know in such short fleeting time. How beautiful.
But it leaves. There are themes established in our lives within this work so many more than I will forever know. I will speak always to you; just as I now regrettably and its opposite live forever locked within the print of these words, forever as time will allow; do you see how I will not leave, how I want to leave, but cannot nor can with every sentence again I am brought back or left behind? No amount of dirt nor dust will bury what I’ve written. And I understand these consequences. I am willing to succumb to this one-sided kind of existence, so loud with so many listeners yet voiceless to make new this conversation I have with myself knowing one day it will be, in the end, to you, my comrade, the seventh to my right, the light hitting the top of our heads slightly different, the shine of your hair reflecting so much more than what I want it to reflect, a bleaking light that is only there in backward false memory.
A memory is falsely repeating itself within these words. There is control here and manipulation too, I am it. A creator limited to the life aging before me, do you see? These questions, they are real. I ask you, am asking you, my lone stranger falsely lit, to think about the questions, to answer them in private just the same as I ask.
That’s a good way to handle blank pages: to accidentally tear through three while ripping one out while listening curiously to a squirrel make his barking sounds.
As much as I am able to interpret there is an equal amount I am unable to interpret and make accessible. The sound he makes—what I can hear—I cannot express to you in any way, not just through writing but in all ways. His sound is my only limitation; I will not even try. It makes me uncomfortable to even consider relaying his note. It is impossible. Here I will explain:
The life of a squirrel is dear to me; they fascinate and make me smile. Their unmatched acrobatics and funny quirks, their jittery tale and intense stare. These things of him I can relay but it is not the whole for there is a sound which I cannot. If I am unable to give the whole I am unable to give the squirrel. Unfortunately there is more I cannot: if I am unable to see one through six and the seventh I am unable to succumb to the fullest one through seven.
Because the squirrel is dear to me, to take a part would be to take his life. I do not believe in unjustified expression: unjustifying is the sin of expression. Conviction is the healing virtue. Upon the words of Emerson, my mentor, who said with authority how to be justified, how to express, and how to be convictious, has given me the strength I need to turn away from the relaying of notes outside of my capability.
I don’t know what to feel or feel for the natural; and the least, it feels so empty, me, why. I, it, we, it is, empty. This voice proclaims how little is there among the bar, and to have, the emphasis deplete. The self is drawn into it. I, was, it are drawn, so the trauma is and it plays the iron string, silently to this it is only emptiness. For that I despair having seen what is not possible, and I despair in seeing what is possible, though the result does not differ in the slightest.
And nothing out of nowhere. This is me observing, not interpreting. Plans are well but there is flaw to so many that I’ve heard that I’ve listened to and it begins and ends with this: the more you speak of your plans the more you will begin to live in a fantasy world of having earned the rights to what you see but have not arrived or passed. Deserved before deserving, accomplished before accomplishing.
If you are in undergraduate school and you speak to me of your plans for graduate school continued into your doctoral education etcetera I will wait for you to finish so that I may begin asking you about now and the context of what you’ve actually done & are doing.
Plans come second to character. The flaw is to build character by making plans and experiencing or learning from plans inside population one fantasy land. No this is the wrong way to do it; and this is me, Me, an observer here not interpreting, having noticed something important and changeable for the progressive and most spirited of minds. I know this writing will fall short of the others.
Dissolve your plans into the present self. Build on yesterday for tomorrow. Your former fantasies will become dreams to earn day by day, moment by moment. Character over plans; all military strategists know the flaw of plan-reliance and so should you. At the least do not make your plans public. Let the future plan silently within the dreams of yesterday. To make public is to slowly build fantasies into false realities, and progressively you will feel complacent with just planning—you will become a planning success and die having achieved nothing but the plan.
A Desire For Future
Think: do you have the desire for future? What comes next? The second minute hour day week year? Seriously think about this [the Desire For Future]. Your response is the conclusion of satisfaction or change, moderate to radical.
I’ve heard these a lot: “Life is unfair,” “Life is a bitch,” “Life sucks then you die,” “Life is cruel”; and yes, these are all wrong, correct for the incorrect, right for those who have no Desire For Future.
Humans inherently have a denial complex to the truth of their timely limited breathing life; this denial spreads, inherently, to both moderate and radical infection. The conclusion for the desireless is one of indefinite denial and persistence to live the next day and the next without desire to survive their time [in denial] with the shit cards dealt.
That is wrong. It is all wrong their life but curable so readily. We are blessed like that: our minds expose us to the depths of our souls and the universe, our minds are open to moderate and radical change have the whole commit to the future desire of life.
I am rarely moderate, only with temperance passing, and thus I choose with control where I go, what I do, and how I will deal with the next second minute hour week day month year.
Think for a moment: there is a question asked among the hopeless and the desireless, “What would you do if you won the lottery?”; think: what is this question? It is the question designed for temporant freedom of undesire and escape to, for a moment, life with Desire For Future. Think about it.
Moderate to radical. Make a moderate intentional change and it will become radical if you believe, if you accept the gravity of that inner, human voice, whispering yelling or crying for difference, mercy, and exceedment to the Desire For Future.
Anything preventing your move, anything and everything is a cloaked acceptance of shitty life disguised by the apparent denial of the shared terminal human disease of guaranteed finite terminal ending. What are you scared of? Bills? Damage? Devastation? Impractibility? Life? Food? Shelter? Friends? Wives? Husbands? Children? Family? Success? Failure? Law? Insecurity? Unsustainability? Survival?
I challenge all those without desire for the next day to make the change right now for a desired future. Make it, believe in it, and you will, then, desire the tomorrow with dripping expectation of life so contrary than all the future dead croaking with below mediocre deaths, denials, unacceptances, passive sadnesses, and anger. Without desire they move slow but fast in the securing of their unrealistic pursuit of unlimited time to later act, later change, and later become the person they desire to be, the desired being they will live without desire to pursue, the people who will die without ever listening to the passion inside directing them elsewhere, the passion speaking with authority to the shit livers, unfair hopeless denying humans destined for the surprised expected end of one’s last croak.
How long, how short do you wait to the last breath to live with desire of future? The next second, hour, day, week, year or life. I advise you with dilated pupils and big eyes, flatlined mouth, downforced eyebrow, wrinkled forehead to make that moderate change in direction, this instant, toward your life’s terminal course of brilliant completion to the life inherently desired by the beautiful incredible mind you possess.
So Will I
Triumph when triumph calls my name or whispers my alias, the social to which I and only I am to feel and feed by way of relentless exposure.
To this call if my knees shake, heart beats, and life quivers so will I prevail against the consuming weakness by letting it consume. I will let it shake me; I will let it break me. And when it is done with me, and when it is done I, barely alive still, will rise and become ready for the call again. And so will you, in times of two triumphs among triumph listen to its call and go willing to pay for its fail. Will you see what is there; will you fair what again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again it is your duty to share.
And thank you for giving your life. We all but share finite existence to share our born energy. To this end your sacrifices extend what has been said and unifies you to me to us to them to all and to the sum we share as subset. For this we live poetically faced with same strife and hardship to further the thing outside.
My Gift of Self
Layne Staley out of my humanitarian obligation I am here re-interpreting your notes, forgive me for this but they must be re-invented for us. So beautiful it was your life that we now extend what you have done through my partial ability to make it new. You struck an iron chord and this is its reverberation. So different I know it is but fueled by your expense it was. Thank you. Your eyes don’t exist and neither do mine, fleeting are others and so this is who we are together: factors of exceeding sums.
My gift of self was given by the universe. Just a part of the greater sum, you the reader as well. The purpose of all life is to help create the unexplained extra with purposeful sacrifice. A rape of self happens to each necessarily; what has happened to me, if by the time you read this I will have already established an end date, was necessary to my role as part and the inherent purpose which at 27 I know to be fulfilling, or at the least headed for it, albeit with gaps and verging imbalanced ends. This role of mine is small but nonetheless necessary to the functioning of the universe; without me the 7th does not exist and so forth, meant to be said outloud by you and I.
And after this recognition the self is no longer ours to celebrate or suffer, though with responsibility we must guide what it is we are each given and ignore the parts of others if the sight of relativity causes contempt. See the things we imagine and read the words we think as a whole—seven.
My gift of self is the ability to hear the whole voice and transcribe its word. By recognition of gift I will devote myself it, to the death for it is my small but necessary universal part. And in this light a sum of love will turn one gear longer for us all.
a Focus among the unfocused
Neither he nor she remember the minutes perhaps hours before they met; it just happened and there they were, together, so infinitely together in that moment in which they met: they, two strangers, wandered the distance of a country and intersected, in just one moment, but through both all of the world was convinced to stop. They within short distance, met, and somehow the intersection of their lives and hearts crossed, intertwined, and broke.
Eye to eye so deeply was it their eyes looking with so much unprecedented love at first sight. No words, no sounds, no memory, just they, the two who fell in love and paid its consequence of falling out.
The crowd around them continued to move. Swarming but not to them just to everything else. Then this connection felt by two broke the collective unity of time and all but they paused with no heart, no life, and no future to the silence of their silent gaze.
He stopped breathing, and with one of two only sharing the memory of this event, he in particular remembered when he started breathing. A small gasp it truly was. Just as oxygen left so seemingly did time—but how tragic time would be to him and to her, to the gaze of a future never to fulfill yet seemingly so real, but how tragic would time be to something so profound perhaps so rarely gifted hardly ever but positively to few, perhaps once and never again—with such force time deletes all real possibility of more.
And there one of them stood, now alone, re-learning how to live having forgotten his life and who he was, and there she stood, aimless yet focused. Both would regain the power of consciousness possibly even greater so having gone through the happenings of something so impossible.
Then the crowd consumed the both of them and their greater sum, deleting it to both. And both would die trying to find again each other for neither knew how, what, or where to be. And such is the focus among the unfocused. Every mile I leave you.
the witnessed potential of that something more, and the concept helps regardless of its truth or falsehood [it is false]. “Thanks for Knowing I like Squirrels” to be revised between us as “Thanks for Knowing I Believe in More.” The fruition is mostly inevitably parted, such is practicality, but reality has no bearing on what is possible and thus what is possibile.
Must I convince. In this regard futile; yes, you aim to build the self-reliance but are you legitimately not ready.
The true test is the test of sharing another’s focus without breaking your own. A simultaneous inward and outward focus—do this and you become a teacher and inspirational vacuum for temporal cases of humilitic pride. Do so with careful attention because the lost will feel your disruption as a shaking of their earth.
Pride, even with preemptive adjectival strength of self-proclaimed humility, is the utmost truth of a focused distraction. There is nothing to simultane when this dangerous variable preludes the harmony in which is the subject of genuine sought, for all, and in this way we are here with you; in this way we must interject as always we must truthfully seamlessly do. We will not ask for the forgiveness, for us all are the alchemist when there is acknowledgement of the current universal readiness.
The opportunistic man goes early; it will miss him if he is late. Two or three agendas, four or five back up plans, all is lost if he is not the early man—the late man achieves nothing, fulfills nothing, for he is nothing nor will he ever be something if he continues to be late.
“Get there before your time and leave just the same” says the early man, “for once early the same man is never late, for I am given one morning, afternoon, or evening a day—and I know all is fleeting.”
The late man sees his allotment differently; he is given day after day; multiple days indefinitely into the year and year into the decade and decades, “he’s late again.” The late man sees life expectancy to the statistic; he is given the average, more or less: Does he smoke? Is he an athlete? Plus or minus it’s guaranteed to him, the late man has decades guaranteed for earliness fulfillment—but not today—“for he is late again and continues to be nothing.”
But for the other, the early man who has no tomorrow, no future, only right now with no guarantees outside of his living agenda, for he will be early, fulfill, and breathe full potential.
Was crucial. “Thank you Justin for the crucial work of Yesterday,” this then ritual is practiced everyday, everyday I thank Justin of Yesterday. In the day I think about Justin of Tomorrow. I try to do things for him. I complete that crucial task for him. Here Justin, I care about you and I will work through today so that we may work through tomorrow, together. You and I, and us, a balance of negtillinguism preparing the moment’s soil of today and today and today thank you Justin of Yesterday.
Trying new things is synonymous with developing the old or “same” thing. Literally, they are equal. For me to spend time writing and you reading about whether or not I have the opinion of preference or argument for trying new things, or for men to spend time writing and you reading about whether or not I have the opinion, preference, or argument for developing and sticking with things, loyally for certain infinitely if felt for passionately is truthfully a waste of both our time.
To grow means to grow the vegetation or fruits of your plot. To spend time opinionating, differentiating, or preferentiating, which what why thus then and how, for me, is a waste of our potential equilibrium reciprocity.
The lesson is harmony with synonymy. One equal to the perception of two; to the same, one land’s truth to another, how true they both are, how untrue they both seem—but how true they are for real—to you, us, to the world’s same mind [Universi].
Again the lesson is harmony with individual universality. We are not writing or reading to discuss which—to try new or to develop old—we are writing and reading to become caretakers of our respective plots—your crop, my crop, their crop, our crop—let us grow and share the universal surplus individual to beautiful individual.
We, I am king of this castle. To what position of seat does the king sit. To what position. To what position is it within one of the seven chairs? Now six, excuse me—six chairs as one was just asked for, politely, to borrow, to bring to another not within the confines of mine, one of the seven.
Does the king own his castle? Is it a perception or does his castle, his “kingdom,” exist externally as concrete truth to something shared by all of us as universally recognized?
The issue I have is with the universality [I] recognized—land, to one controlling another’s and with the case of the king—“you” is that you thought such control exists. I question your control, your ability to say “no, this fourth chair is mine, though vacant, it is mine, and no, you may not have what is mine [the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh].”
With so many names and customs specifying yet at the same time collectively summarizing so much how can we in the face of the sum prescribe human specification. We do share chairs but not each other’s because seven is given to all though many still die alone with empty vacancy. By reverend humility to believe in the King’s Castle, define it as you will, so collectively will we: love. And with love I will love you forever indefinitely so transcendently as my human life to yours.
Seventh is I am, One through Six but parts, One through Seven is the Sum Greater than All the Parts—represent this incubation of myself and mind and heart and to finally the sum of a shared soul resonating back into the single force we all soon become having unbecomed, to the each of us—lovingly unbeknownst.
Are visual predestinations. We love to believe in free will but we also love maps—“guarantees” and “expectations.” How with planning can we live? Especially amongst so much foretelling destructive chaos, how can we? A map is a map; it is not the future nor has it a reasonable margin of error. Listen to me and drop every map you have: elementary graduation, a promotion, a report card to the next, a retirement; all is lost, all will be lost—take hold of the movement with forward optimism and a strong grip of that which flickers of uncertain future darkening and brightening to your immediate front; predestination is possible I believe to be so on the same walls of prophecy, self-actualization, and superstition fed into us unbeknownst eternally.
And to this an inquisition occurs: how does the flow of planning and predestination halt in stagnance for so many? Subside; I ask for your forgiveness and the power to make them listen. Please give me the courage for I am deteriorating. With love I am here but they are not, not there, just us, parts separated into blocks and spots of time and self refusal to see what it is that is there.
The thing is I’ve begun to listen to every impulse besides the imposition against other life. For that I partially engage; the subconscious flashing thoughts require this partial censor. If you do not listen to what I am about to say it will flash: all of these censors disappear within a correcting environment, each of us has at least one and all are accessible.
It can be controlled; dreams can be controlled thus this shared reality is controllable internally with external positions of positive consequence. Please believe in our better life, one that is built with a truth so real and so full of progression. This is the way: forget everything out of control while actively living to understand what in fact it is you control. To live by the uncontrollable is to pull your beautiful attention away from your life and the lives around you, for us and for us all.
Pre-disposition to habits only exists if pre-destination is true. Before the distraction of human science there-then there were three: heart, mind, and soul. The consequence of this trio is a natural form of self-reliance, a powerfully natural form of now-rare self-journeying for want of escaping from cell and into wilderness from which causes fear respectably so as courage is earned and not inherent.
Arise from the limitations of perception. Though you may believe with force a reality—you the world, you the creator—you must absolutely understand that your shared reality does not coincide with reality in itself. What you say and believe is true 100%, but what is understood by equally independent minds may and will differ from your impressive conviction.
So while convictious you are, there is something to and of relentless gravity of becoming minds. Know them and prepare yourself for the difference between this reality and shared reality. Nothing else is truer than reality, the world in which your individual mind creates, but furthermore, and also, you absolutely must understand the validity of other minds within the collective shared reality, with which in time you will in fact understand despite the continually renewed surprise of confrontations between reality and shared reality. In time both will blend. In time.
The power to live in the present while compensating to the future while reflecting on one’s past: this is sequential thought. And like all things it is to be taken advantage of and only really seen when the power is gone and the mind incapable.
The Blank Page has taught me the necessary appreciation—just like that of a mother, brother, or father choosingly distant & dead from unexpectation. We are alive from the should have been suspecting, should have been appreciating life. Our lives are living because of this, their presence, they who lose swiftly so does the man with one’s mind. Here, gone, there—here I will devote myself gone, and tragic here, to deplete myself there and then I will die.
Going? If I didn’t know each out of everyone was, in themself, a separate standalone world, there would be a great cause for panic. So quickly they travel. It, they produce enough anxiety individually to self-propel up to, through, and past me, a stationary self-proclaimed observational world of no consequence. Either they are self-propelled or they are being pulled [which is even more alarming]. When is it my turn? Should I really think about this. It all scares me—it does, it scares me. I can’t see where it is they go. They come & they pass, nothing more but realistically everything less.
Temptation: The Final influence
March 30, 2012: it has occurred to me this night I live by temptation. Decisions are made. What am I to do, give in or resist, give in or resist, give in or resist, give in or resist, and on and on thousands of times a day like a small faint flickering flight of candle fire losing its life indefinitely to the fainter breeze moving in directions uncontrolled. I’ve noticed when my attention becomes vacant it quickly fills with shooting, brief lights of temptation competing for the future attention. Temptations are activities that cause you to question on some level the value & validity of the activity in question: “to give in or resist.” The competition exponentially challenges your chances of resisting because they come at you one after another non-ceasingly for the duration of your life. Silence one flicker and a new wick grows somewhere else, burning or soon to burn with the now vacant spot of attention. Temptations are dynamic—they flicker with the breeze moving—and they grow weak then strong, weak and strong, weakened stronged. We then, therefore, must pay respect to the 21st century lives devout with dark unlit paths, eyes inward, now suffering against the terrible odds of our time to find this cleansing magnificent darkness among so much accessibly wrong guiding us with false light away from what is good.
So much destruction. I learn to cooperate and so should you [how to cooperate]. It is not to fizzle the flame in one’s life; it is to remain quiet and explode with more than anyone thought you had. Just like that, you implode and outshine the peers in which you feel have cast your public darkness.
“I want more,” you and I say together in unison. “But this is supposed to be fun,” we will say, “And I will remind you it is not.” The tale ends and there is no longer your relativity, a good and cold beast sparing some and killing most.
“Do not kill,” “Please if you may kill,” “I do not wish to hear the killing nor be in it, I wish to transcend what it and you and me can give beyond the mortality with which you threaten inwards to the knife I know only to possess, and to the mushroom belt so soothing around my neck pulling and constricting the voice speaking to us all in silence asking for a stop to its prolonged irrelevant belongance.
And to this I heard “Kill Yourself”; this form of hate resonates so far and so long that the seventh will eventually hear its word—there is a difference between the beautiful and the hateful but both in fact share a similar end, such is the way of all.
Before I killed him the worst part of me had doused an anthill with kerosene and burned its entire colony—its habitat, its villagers, its queen—and my prelude to innocence. Its collective life I still mourn having caused its summaritive loss; so cruel then was I. But does this make me incapable of love having murdered so much life? Does this make a return to innocence incapable? No it does not because we all forever possess the capability of love. It sleeps inside us always excited to wake. Reserve your expectations. Just as mine are wrong which I come to find, yours are wrong as well—can we not as it were separate love from all other things and see it as it is to be seen, separate, isolated, alone yet filled with so much unity, so much outward encompassment that none could ever be outside its grab, if any few could ever hear the screams of the ants too quiet to be heard against the outpouring of their blood reddening my ear drums?
I think about the chipmunk often—his death caused by the hands of a becoming poet so weak in his stance, so weak in his heart to feel so much for so little while seeing more than what he could have ever expected to see. The love causes these tears—it is the love—the love makes us all cry, it is the only thing that causes our tears. Was it I that betrayed?; was it he?; was it the way things are to have come and taken without reason to say this is life this is life this is life this is life do not take it this our life you are killing us while you kill him while you kill her while you kill him while you kill her? I am so sorry. I forgive as if I could forgive, as if it were my position but it is not. But please the love it is so strong. Standing on his back legs, the munk filtered the rushing breeze into and out of his lungs. His heart beated to the perch of his small feet on the tree stump wiggling small nostrils for the extra catching of wind nuisance. If only he could have smelt the predator slouching in his small innocent shadow.
His tummy expanded a few centimeters, retracted a few centimeters. How could he misjudge my scent for peace?; why didn’t he run?; why did he continue to perch, that munk on the stump so many years ago so at such peace with a rivaling force equal to its opposite creeping on hands of everlasting impending remorse? Why couldn’t have the gun backfired. A cheap bb to backfire into the face of all that is wrong and all that I must remember each day to live by why can’t it be don’t you see how much I hurt?
I came within yards of him. The munk embraced my presence far too early in my years. Perhaps he sacrificed himself so that I, continually relentless, may remember his peace and how he surrendered his world to a barrel gripped by crusted fingers browned by age of youth.
A small pool of blood rested where the munk once stood. His blood looked like mine. I stayed with the him until his whimpering quieted and stopped. So that is death, that is murder; I will mourn him for eternity.
How are we to know who and which to trust, to distrust, to love, and to reject when they all sound and come from the same voice, the same me.
It’s always me who leads us [the collective me] into the darkness and out. They take shifts cycling my power to love and to hate, all of it coming out and in from the same Universi.
If I cannot trust the void to whom must I lower it for. There are so many yet it is only one collection of voices—always me, always mine. I own this voice in all revealing moments, so dynamic that I am, and that you are as well, equally so, so equal it always was and will always be: equal.
One voice seeks the extroverted life of public outings and friendship. I listen to me, then here we are—out into a publicizing outing with 44 voices against the one who made this situation real. It, that one voice, convinces the collection into a truth of one, soon revealed by natural polarity to the always conflicting whole.
Again, so here I am: 44v1 dealing with the terrible percentage of dissatisfaction, one content and 44 against, each 44 pulling in 44 ways with enough charisma to convince the collection into taking on the one, the temporal truth, temporarily: I am 44 against one, all of which are me.
Of my life and forsaken it is not. I cannot begin to say with definition or accessibility how it is I came to be nor how will I come to say how it ends.
The sky clouds and no longer am I able to see which has given life; neither I nor will they come to see what it is awaiting them all. How will we reach a resolution without such resonating remorse that I’ve carried as son to be fed?
And with great sadness I will watch the judgement commence, and for this though it shall pass, born by you and not I to bear, and you will remember, so collectively you will intermittently remember the flow and despair to which you all have always given.
And to this you will understand my slant of brow—both visibly compassionately and aggressively judgemental for what you have done with your time. Spare none, neither will we see this collective end to that which I will not share again.
The final say is coming and there is much too much for you to fear.
Lord give me the courage. I will not act out of balance or check to your capacity of love. In all things good and evil I devote my life to the sum. I will not waste my gift of self asking for your forgiveness; instead I will sacrifice my life to the gift you have given me, given us all, to advance our sum so universal it can and will be.
My forgiveness is paid; my time is finite; to spend time to the salvation of self is to progress the devil’s promotion of a strictly parting self of such ununiversality and unsummarativity. The gift of self begins with the parting of self but ends with the sacrifice of self.
For the universe do love and follow through to this beautiful sacrifice. Create burdens, suffering, and pain—inward. You are our part and your gift of self is to embrace and walk with pure love through until the end of all things.
If you have not found the self I give you mine and these words as an extension of my love for you, us, and it, the same mind and the sum so greater than our parts: if you are lost begin with love, love will direct you to passion, passion will be your gift of self, your gift will give way to sacrifice, and your fifth is the stage of your death and contribution to us all.