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062725

What is there to do, really? Time, unmarked by reason. Thought, untouched by time. The process continues, revision ensues, growth takes place.

Who am I to someone else? Who do they think I am to myself?

Tiny lightning storm on the inside, where does the friction come from? Do the skies clear when it’s gone?

This fear hasn’t always been mine.

When did I pick it up? And for what purpose did it serve me at that time?

Imagine all those items collecting dust on the shelves of past experience, splayed out across the lawn for another to find treasure in. To polish and take with them as they venture onward in their own direction. The brevity of collision contributes to the nature of impact.

Words are signposts suggesting direction toward experience.

Expression is evolving in such a way that the boundary between art and life is dissolving.

Nothing makes sense, wonderfully.

Streams of light connect moments piercing through layers of time. Another dimension.

It isn’t up and down, side to side, or front to back. It is one single infinite point.

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison. Well, then it isn't one to you, since nothing is really good or bad in itself—it's all what a person thinks about it”. (Shakespeare, Hamlet)

20:28

Stillness. Things move, but nothing changes. Their essential nature remains the same. Can you feel it? There is no shiftiness in their essence, no shadows flickering on the cave wall.

There was a time in my memory, great glass windows swung open in the rain beneath the cover of towering maple trees. We hung out over the sill, no screened boundary, listening as the water tapped little patterns on the leaves, falling to the damp earth below. What was there then is here now. Stillness.

The light fades, the night sinks in. Seeping through the thick cover of clouds, hovering like a blanket above this small corner of the world.

It is possible to escape into the things we are hiding from. To hide in plain view.

Retracted into my self like a bunker, waiting for all the world to come to me.

I can feel it coming from way out in the distance.

As if something in the stars had changed.

It makes its way to me, unknowingly yet undoubtedly.


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