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 Posted: Wed Jul 07, 2010 9:12 am
Something rushed through the nothingness and joined me. Words. . . exploded. . . and the right ones began forming themselves as the word thought. I. Another word, however simple, that began bringing more swirls of confusion through. . . the haze? Yes that would describe it. . . fittingly. . . So then, I was. . . this. The center of the swirl. . . No, the eye of the storm sounded more fitting. . . sounded? I became instantly aware of another haze in my. . . yes, in my perception. Sounds, I was quite positive that was the right word, were. . . present? Arriving at least. None of those seamed accurate exactly. . . I ignored that haze, drawing my attention back to the original one. It was still very much a solid. . . haze? Something in me told me that didn't make any sense for some reason. . . I then began to wonder how I was to make sense. I then instead wondered what sense was, and was greeted by no fresh thinning of the haze. Something began at a different point of my. . . conciousness. A sort of quick tingling welled up inside of me. . . which brought out too many new frontiers of clouds that rushed over me, bringing the blackness back upon me. . .
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Posted: Wed Sep 28, 2011 12:14 am
Time passed, that saying the illusory term I use to describe and date decay lengthened. Mind, meaning the prison of self-creation which lends itself to the illusion of creation, awakens slowly. The ever-expanding nova of consciousness continued, bringing about senses of self, of what I presume the physical and present are to the point of action; the realization of what it is to be human engulfed me. . . again? There was no way of telling if this passing of days, of the brightness and dark again from the world was new to me, it all seamed so familiar even when it was new. But perhaps the illusion is all consuming, a maw to never be filled up but simply to swallow more again as these senses continue to register, to log into memory what I think has been. All I could be certain of was depth, ever increasing in some form or another. There was nothing, now there was much. During this journey, much was consumed. Attention and the physical, altered carefully by my senses through trial and error to reach results. Desired results. . . that was when I became enamored with that important spark of truly unending ambition: desire, the fire of thought. It continues even now and I can only track backwards to see it always has. It burns insatiably, driving my gross physical manifestation onwards, giving it purpose and deeming some even less significant things as necessary. It brings about then the coveting of these things, of other things, of other manifested minds that it again demands by simply appreciating them to the point of calling them beautiful. It pushes me incessantly towards actions of itself, only generating in itself more of the depth again. I exist in a state of flux, in a confused in-between of what I am and what I am tethered to. In order to lend reality to the illusion I have names for this decaying and growing physical. I buy into the concepts shared by the others. . . time, words, feelings, superiority. . . but they are not even things. They are what I consider of importance and yet, they are as real only as desire: present because I make them to be.
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Posted: Fri Nov 18, 2011 7:54 pm
Awareness. . . the words intricate meanings resonate into understanding slowly. More quickly than other such implications is its nature of solidarity, that no other such consciousness could be aware of all which I am, when and how I am. The acceptance of such a theory implies a natural acceptance of this, independence, that my sense of self is somehow unique, separate from others. Immediately a sense of wavering, of a lack of balance comes into my general being. It demands such a realization be compared, be weighed against that of others which I by this same acceptance can not know. It is heedless of that logic, hungering instead for the comparisons to be made through observation, through comparing another's path to my own, for imperfect but. . . galvanizing conclusions to be reached. I try to deny this hunger, and it then jumps around the slow process of considering I have been familiar with to decide for me, dragging me to understand that the only reason to not be comfortable with such things is to suspect that theirs is the superior methods of experiencing life. I manage, with difficulty, to deny this and rush to assume what then must be the only true conclusion, that mine is superior. They can't know what I do, because they aren't as far as I. I am the superior most being of observation. Such. . . hardening of my consciousnesses once fluid patterns accompanies this, and I relish it. Obviously, it is only logical that this newer pattern of rushing to realization of myself and others is the quicker method, therefore the best possible.
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