To start another episode with another another: how detestable that the tales run tail to head! How intractable this resuscitation of owl-bitten machinations! Why are we dragging our torn and tattered feet on this misremembered day of hurricanes unfurling? The trapped gasses that bake our mistakes undertake tremendous somersaults to flip us out of our slumber. All these ridiculous utterances sound the same: can they attain to more than abstracted seeing? – saying “this does that” “that is this” “who sees what?” “what do we?”. I cannot hear these for novel creations any longer; I am bitten by the owl that has gone blind bleached as its photoreceptors have become by the highest violets that we allowed through our gassy layers in our ignorant processes and shortsighted industry. My lungs expunge the residues that collect from over-saturating our skies with a burnt umber hue of decadence in this infernal plane. My gut ferments with bacterial bloom that mirrors microcosmically the self-serving urge that underlies this ouroboric reality. Would that I could tell a tale that should end the stale yelling and mend our frail hell-bent story-selling that upsets so many stomachs and sends so many frivolous hermits to the nether! But that itself would be another; O – just another! From daughter to mother, a chain perpetuates. This is a mother, and there is another. But don’t look sad, for here is yet another. And another, and another, forevermore, another! Rid me of these others, and bring the lot to stall. Blast the chain open and sever the gravitational outpouring of our past into our future – I am constricted by this spatiotemporality, in the very same veins that oftentimes flow awe-stricken electricity.
As this wave flows and recedes in turn, we take turns to experience highs and lows, then return for another cycle, and so on, forevermore. I have surrendered many times to the ongoing processes of life and death, but its terrible vastness can be overwhelming to take in; how at odds this is with the ridiculous littleness of me is too stark a meeting of fire and ice; too sudden an explosion of ignorance that leaves the pain of existence too palpable to ignore; too immense a burden revealed at those times when we realize the enormity of the problem.
Simultaneously and suddenly, we may come to see this as merely the state of affairs instead of a problem to solve; that anything is at all is due to this chain of anothers; I am, therefore I am another; its repudiation beckons at a distance, but is far off yet; whether this come about by our own self-destruction on a planetary scale, or as individuals; or better yet, if we evade such catastrophe, or somehow survive it, and learn self-renunciation, and transcend existence. I do not know what that entails, for I am doomed to flow onward from another to another. So submission to the endless flux is my only mission. Drenched by this river of constant becoming, I continue to bloom, but soon I will wilt, only to resume in bloom, but again to wilt, and so on and so on ad infinitum. There is no transcendence of this so far as I know, so go with its flow, and enjoy the show.
such a beautiful line: My gut ferments with bacterial bloom that mirrors microcosmically the self-serving urge the underlies this ouroboric reality.
We are digesting ourselves in countless ways.