ruinedbyproxy
The Distance
There was something unmanagingly deep about the way my dog sighed. The way he gave me a sidelong glance before doing so. The way he seemed to contemplate as I talked on the phone, knowing that he’d never understand. The way he perked and heaved himself up and bumbled over to me anyway when called, unquestioning in his trust.
That trust was total. It was earned by witnessing me – something so obviously, staggeringly capable – choosing to be gentle. That sigh communicated a distance between us vaster than the stars.
woah
>be lonely
>meditate eternally as the entirety of everything all the time
>repeatedly try to fall asleep but keep waking up as life
>see yourself from the eyes of countless organisms
>woah
Delusion Machine
We are pieces in an unbroken chain that goes back to a scattered cloud of hydrogen, and the unthinkable amount of solar generations hence, each one a dice roll that peeked at our inevitability. For as sure as we exist to say so, we were in fact inevitable. It was only a matter of time.
And even before hydrogen. The quarks, the gluons. The tethers of energetic forces piecing themselves together from a voidless void perpetually filling itself with the only patterns capable of being patterns at all. An infinitude of pure potentiality.
We're not here as individuals. Nothing about us is independent, not truly. We are fragments of eternity, budded from the tree of all. And yet, it's a clusterfuck. It's complicated enough to delude itself. How worked up we can get over the pettiest things.
It seems like just a giant delusion machine.
And at the bleeding edge of this thing's generative novelty, here I am, an apparently inevitable contextual manifestation of everything, an entangled animation sometimes dissatisfied with the motions I must go through to even sustain myself. Or to look 'presentable.' Motivation leaves more easily than it arrives. Inertia.
How are we to reconcile everything being asked of us, implicitly by nature or explicitly by society, in the face of such absurdity? The fear of death is a more motivating factor than the curiosity for what's next. Because this thing keeps twisting itself into trainwrecks.
I am told to live in the present, but my attention spans the spectrum of human folly. I can see whatever future I want, but I cannot attain any future I want. Is this the five stages of grief for the death of non-existence, the final stage being a calm acceptance of the absurdity of having been born into this riptide of having these senses and needs?
A good friend said: "Intelligence is a bootstrapping process by which complex systems pressure themselves to supersede the limitations that were necessary to bring them about. It is the universe rejecting its own censorship. We are intention wrapped in a self-contained medium. I'm a story pulling the next page over itself."
Galactic Prime
I'm Galactic Prime, number-ornate, dust-woven thermodynamicism incarnate. Bathed in radiation and wrapped up in garments. I see the nest of the hornet and wonder what God meant.
Words come out of my brain seemingly pre-ordained, a matrix of matter combining matters that make the rain feel phatter and fatten the lessons that implode anyway as each new day I am forced to realign my ideals with the actual, factual mess of this consciousness.
Energy spires into wells, conspires into cells, feels its way through the dark until the parts of it that survive the cannon-fodding of its own hapless nodding manage to thrive.
It's doing all of this to itself, and the crumbs it left when it knew it would forget have molded into dust.
@
The thing that chooses, the thing that doesn't. The thing that needs, the thing that doesn't.
The song that ends. The song that is remembered. Not by you. You have to give up. At some point, you have to give up. Most likely, because you'll be forced to. We'll have to leave each other. We'll have to remember each other, and never again get to see each other. But then we, too, will get to die.
We don't want to, do we? Not really. Though we deprave absurdity, we crave potential.
But a song is defined by silence. Death is singing to an audience you no longer get to see.