Astrophysics, comorbidities, time revelations, death camps, restitution, awareness of the transcendental…
An appropriate introduction to this would presume I am struck by a light of some sort. I am. The glow between the shutters produces two stripes over the knuckles of my hands as I type. Whether or not you believe in good omens, life does not care. I am fueled by a new world view setting upon me, perhaps never reaching any horizon. I float as it falls and it continues this way. Like Shel Silverstien’s, Falling Up. I am falling up, as I fall short, and do better, and fall short again, and do better once more, and it continues and so on. Alhamdullilah. The stretch and prognosis of man. Paralyzing less one is one with the cruel brutality of this world, this jungle, this spiritual jungle, supernatural from the heart to the mind and outward like a spark from big-hitter Ness when he yells, ‘PK Fire!’. This mode of modalaxus pertains a man create his own language by action born of intrinsic thought harnessed through a breath of fire, that energy that takes him to the level of nexts. It isn’t a permeable function, so easily bought with the hands of the uncalloused, murderous and incredulous, no– it’s for the martyrs. Those who kill themselves in pursuit of something sacred to them. Consecration is not a word or a pledge, it’s a devout practice burned in the skin absorbed to fluid in the bones and re-emerges as consciousness evolved. Try it.
Brute force and continual knowledge thy seek bring forth the foam, the flurries of religion and it’s spice. Could I have hoped for a better pair of parents? No. I am what has been created, and I am man. Continuing with this logic it means I have no relation to what anyone might cast me as in their minds, and regardless, I am myself. A contingency. Don’t you get it. We’ve wrought truth by acting in our favor, and we wrought favor by acting in truth. Such is the crispus, the entropic upbringing fellowed by our actions. Raising a child is not the most creative thing you can do, creating yourself is, just as a child will raise themselves only if they had the conscious awareness too. Life is lackadaisical in it’s teaching, and a heaving weight on the chest if you don’t listen. Crushing, almost.
So what is there to do now. When you’ve transmuted the abundance of energy to say what you would have in a flow under a breeze of snow in a blizzard? You’ve parried ancestors notions of your failure to achieve, but the meter restarts, it begins again, empty, asking you once more with the floor cracking underneath you to apply yourself in some other phase and suffer the pleasure of the stretch.
FRICTION, TILL DEATH 