The ego disclaims.You get to do whatever you want, you just can't take credit for it in the end. You're doing it on the universe's behalf, because you're The Universe, manifest as a possible particular pattern of itself. There is accountability here.More Like This
How successfully can subjectivity be reminded of its source? Truly? Does it want to avoid thinking about the fact that it didn't used to exist, and now all of a sudden there's this roaring sensory riptide happening? Egos are safe. Egos are beautiful. They are abstract shells dreamt up against the ontological reality of energy's lack of true intention. But they're ultimately and terribly delusional.
And I love that word, 'particular.' 'Particulate.' 'Particle,' 'thing,' 'object.' It's a way of noticing that there is singularity as well as multiplicity happening at the same time. It's a paradox we live every day. Here is a chair, but the chair is atoms. Here is an atom, but the atom is quarks. Here is a person, but the person is cells. Here is a pattern, but
Gaping WholeWe share the same biologyMore Like This
but inside our psychology
lies an insane methodology
to dehumanize another.
we hold distinction above similarity,
drawing lines that harden minds
against a higher clarity.
Meta-cultural gulfs of false polarity.
Delusions that a common understanding is a fantasy.
Self-assured superiority, uncompromisingly
maintaining stubborn impasses, unbudging ideologies.
Falling into rabbit holes, identities of pride.
Every person is a schizophrenic universe inside.
LooperRedemption sucks at the winds of contention,More Like This
lightcast bridge to trance.
Another convention becomes a parent,
reminding nerves they can dance.
Led into the lights of whom?
Of what is being sought?
How can we appreciably see
what we ourselves have wrought?
In PlaceThere's a place that I knowMore Like This
where words do not flow
and ideas become objects
beyond their dimension.
Descriptors fall off
like pieces of cloth,
revealing a shape
This place isn't really a place at all,
if places require definition.
It's a space of unspace
at a time of untime,
and no singular subjection.
There's a place we all go
where winds halt their bellows
and faces fall off into sand.
The lines that defined
all the things in our mind
escape like water from hands.
A part of me that runs on words
shouts and pleads to try and relate.
But I think now that all it is doing
is trying in vain to deny and abate