In the cigarette smoke there were pictures. And as the smoke rose and dissipated, so the pictures faded and were gone. At the window a view of the old gate in the field unused.
Beyond the gate the fields rolled on forever. These were the meadows for the pathways of the travelers or perhaps they were pathways for the meadows themselves untraveled.
In the shadows of the sun lay memories. As within the pictures of the smoke or in the vision of an eye still closed, they wandered. Were the memories real with myself the shadows image. Or were the pictures, the viewer and the space between them, all but nothing.
I knew there was purpose in my presence here and understood its gravity. Yet how to perform this role or roles and for whom. What wisdom required that my thoughts alone should ponder such meanings. And why was I so haunted with memories yet without recollection.
This house immortal, having no soul to shed, had itself fathered no dreams. To arrive, if one had ever left, was to dream and to fill the space of the void before and after. A place of one but many rooms, of one but many people and one but many times.
From the fields a view of the house gave a view of the house with a view of the fields. At the place in between, a view of both the house and the fields within the greater space of the rumoured grounds. And among those hedges and corners were places forever unvisited, places that would defy intrusion and escape delineation.
Above and among us there were others, like images in the mirror of a room with or without such furnishings. Were we but to become them in such service or purpose as reversal, and would such combinations add or subtract to imperfection.
In the skies of the dawn came other vessels with cargoes. In the days of their journeys were the years of their leaving. Departing nameless and without destination, devoid of purpose or fanfare they came. To leave is but to sow the seeds of all arrival.
There were infinite and inevitable choices here. All could and would be made, or not. But of course it could never be any other way. All choice or change in direction could only ever, both support, and outlaw any variation to the path as yet untrod.
For each road a beginning and an end. For even as the last step retraces the first as yet untaken, both shall falter. And if all journeys or parts of journeys were at once all joined, then this house, the ships at dawn and the fields containing both, might then have meaning.
Eyes to observe or observations for eyes. But what of the point on the surface of an eye in between the two states. And what of the eye itself at this distance. Was the mind of the lens within the brain beyond this tissue, or could it be that the perceived view had created this and other eyes to view itself as it wished to be seen.
First came desire. Out of desire came hope followed by belief and then reality. In the shadow of desire was dread. And in the shadow of dread came all fear. To believe in the fear of dread is to know its reality.
In the times of the house, if the house were to have such times, were the times of us all. And in us all, if all and us could be seen apart, were the times of ourselves, of the house and of each other.
There were days so calm and so full of peace. And there were days where tensions hung motionless and heavy. Times of ultimate solitude and times of cold unseen surveillance. There were simple and complex days where the weight of all knowledge and the toxic addiction of all innocence could co-exist.
In all of the moments in all of the days, were none such as could be known as by knowing them all. It was as if in one breath that many lives were lived. But it was a breath that was both taken and exhaled. It was a breath that went on and on, forever in and forever out.
Sometimes a kind of music would break the silence. The sounds seemed to leak from the air itself and would mimic the events of the day. Occasionally it felt as though the melody was leading the dance of lives passing, as a puppeteer might lead his dolls.
So curious and yet so indifferent. How I yearned to fulfill my tasks and to fix the gaping holes in this damaged wilderness. But it was because of its imperfections and because of its shattered pasts, that any attempted reconstruction could only ever fail.
To rebuild the foundations of an altered structure is to embark on a course that will deliver the basis for complete restoration. If through its alterations however, the building has changed in ways that defy detection, to undo the undone is to simply do what has been done already.
On until the dawn becomes the day. On until the lighted meadows dry in the sun of another moment in another way. On until that day beside the one before the one which follows, ends. On and on forever though never, even for a moment, always.
This was a place for the amnesty of souls. A place where guilt lay naked and ugly. It was a place where the deeds of times adjacent to times denied could live. Within this house and within the grounds beyond were the minds of those who couldn’t forget.
In a paddock to the east of the house stood a tree. Below the tree running fast and loud was a stream. In the boughs of the tree were the birds that never moved and never sang. In the winds within this structure, rushing under and over its naked yet outstretched arms, was the essence of its true potential.
For the winds bore the life of the birds. And within them were the seasons and the passage of time. To an eye of the house, becalmed and bedeviled, the tree lay bare. Through the eyes of the winds unbetrayed, the tree, the house and the souls within that house all lived.
What merit could reside here? Could any failed measure or notion provide justification for such dealings as these? And if in all its interwoven and multi-layered pointlessness, a point should emerge, could this or any other statement ever be read or witnessed.
Upon these fields an illustration. Upon these skies and within those distances to the fields below are further marks and colours from the same hand. And as the sketch approaches and then exceeds perfection, the subject itself becomes the sketch and the drawing becomes that which is drawn.
And the words remain unspoken. For the days themselves, like flags devoid of colour or design, lay unannounced. And within the structure of the days lay moments. For each moment there was another and another all striving for immortality within the fallacy of choice.
In any moment there was the essence of the next. And in any moment there was the shadow of the last and memory of the present as it slipped aside forever. Here was the slide of continuity. Here was the spiral of the joining of moments and the vortex of the parting of souls.
And in the air itself were also the times of men and the times of women. The house as a forum for eternity was both the centre and the edge of all places. Overlaid within those places were the first and the last of times and the first and last of the ways that allowed them to exist as separate moments.
Shining on the stairs to the west of the study was the sun. It shone today and it would shine tomorrow. There were days where clouds would fill the sky and empty the meadows of all their colour and life, but the sun always shone on the stairs by the study.
In the grass on the floor of the garden lounge, the wind of the coast and the valleys ran free. No frame to support the glass of the doors to the garden remained, and the purpose of such divisions had passed. Now the vanity of the lawns and the flowerbeds and the passions of the room devised to admire them were gone.
In all of the rooms there were items as in all of the items were the souls of the rooms to which they belong. Some were never used though all were kept and remained as new. Here they could exist as perpetual reminders of maintenance as a function of reality.
Longer still were the days than the years that together they made. Endless moments ran featureless like a stream that in silence tumbled and fell. Where did the cycle begin and where did it end, from source to rebirth over and over ….amen.
In places and in artifacts associated to those places was the symmetry of kinship. In all events, time would part those frail adhesions who by their separations would permit that which would isolate them to exist. Here in the house and in all that could be seen to have shared this space, were the prototypes of such affection.
Such perfect division. No greater accuracy could ever exist to over shadow such ruthless dissection. Indeed, so apart here were the skills and motives from those of simple mutilation, that all but admiration itself, lay severed and torn.
And how should we devise such places. For as products of other destinations, they must and will evolve. Is it the bridge that in spanning the river will join the banks? Or would the banks and the river have created the void of the bridge.
Still higher were the stakes in the shadows of the light. For the light was the force that defined each image. Yet it was the image itself, in denying access to the space it occupied, that was to define its own shape. But it was downstream in the shadows of each of the shapes that were seen, that others remained unseen.
It was to one such intangible presence that we all bore allegiance. And it was within such confinement, that we as brothers were both the witnesses and the judged. Aside of such deeds lay the souls of those who would perform them. Here were the victims, the assailants, the judges and the jury. Here was the matrix of eternal cause and effect.
There were those who imagined their lives had meaning. There were those who believed that such was but a proving ground in which each of us could show our worth for the life hereafter. And there were others still who had seen and would tell of even greater truths. All, who were seen and were heard by those with me now, were heard as the fools that they were and would always be.
But there were those who would paint their vision. And there were those with other tools of other trades who sought and found this and other houses in other meadows. But how to convey such perception. How indeed when those who would wait were those who would denounce even their own senses. Ours alone, was for those who could see, and for those who would then begin to see.
Away from here, upon and within other days we traveled. Days whose very existence was all that allowed us to visit them and that was all that allowed its moments to multiply. Here we were as tourists, and were those who would paint and thus see that which we perceived to be so. But was it our eyes and minds alone that strove to capture and record their vision, or was it the canvass itself that now became the sole witness to reality.
And how they would stand before us. On and on with words that could form no sentence or worthy thought. How highly each would rank their piers in ways to quantify and inflate their own level of understanding. It was within this orgy of unmodulated self-gratification, and within the fabric of such self sustaining transmissions, that both the need for, and acquisition of recipients, was, and would remain unresolved.
To think is to begin. Desire is to fail as to achieve is to have never tried. To doubt is to dare but trust belief. Yet belief is to mistrust the truth in such a way as to disarm its potency. All longing and all dread, respectively, and by their very definition, will repel and attract forever.
What was our role as seers to be? That our vision exceeded those we beheld was clear. Yet knowing of purpose, must by its absence, have no validity here. Perhaps our function lay solely in our observations and presence within this void. Were we simply the bridge between the blind we were here to observe, and those who would observe us?
Could the riddles of this play ever be resolved? And were the solutions of those yet uncast, weaker or stronger than those who would enact each part. Were indeed such roles as apart as they would seem. And if separated, for or by the observer, then the reliance of each on the other would, and could have no meaning.
In essence the mechanics of eternity were the workings of us all. And the workings of us all were the threads in the fabric of forever. We, as both the weaver and the woven, were neither all or part. We were the light and we were the darkness, we were the beginning, and we were the end.
Upon which calculation could an understanding be found. Were there tools that might enable such assessment, and who might then assemble them? In what manner would they be engaged in this task, and were there to be both teachers and pupils, or were those who would learn, then to become those who would apply.
Near the house, at the edge of an adjoining field, was a gate. As sleep might brighten an enslaved and shattered mind, so to this point, not of one field or the other, might also cure. And there were many such gates and many such renewals as in passing through they came.
Yet what of those who despite their speed remained motionless. And what of those who in travelling found their roads ending where they’d begun. Were these linear people testimony to the infinite variety and worthiness of the recycled soul? Or would the agonies of their finite vision define each summation of all such moments as valueless.
In caring, if curiosity could be described as such, was I truly so. Yet the very existence of motivation, when powerless, was itself in question. All these ways to which we might adhere. And all these designs within which we must endure.
The last measure of a full day’s worth, fell as a single droplet into the sea of the total. Here was the sum of it all. For as a myriad separate moments would permit the evolution of each day, so too might many such cycles, allow eternity itself to unfurl.
And the mind was the mind of us all. All seeing, though blinded by malfunction, disconnection or both. Was to embark on blinkered navigations, the design of the mind of which we were a part? Could once our questions have had answers? And were all the solutions then back-engineered for those, who would propose such, to reassemble.
Could they, or "We", as they indeed might be, have known the weight of this misadventure? Was there an alternative distraction, if that is what was being sought?
The full appreciation of complete exile is dependent upon absolute isolation. If this removal should encompass all that was hitherto learnt and all that was known before, then surely we must replace its title of adventure, with that of genocide.
That there were monitors amongst us was indisputable. Was this vile and empty playground for such as those that retained former memories and could therefore enjoy its variety. Or were their tasks more clinical and sinister as observers to an experiment that they may or may not decide to taste for themselves.
Were we then guineepigs or were we willingly deactivated participants. And were the observers really observers or were they the true recipients of the fruits of the experiment.
There were still other players with other roles to be considered. For there were those who were not observers and those who were clearly not the observed either. Were such hybrids an attempt to find the point between the two at which a solution to eternal distraction could be found?
No favours or enlightenment were gained through pretence. Any attempt by one who was observed at feigning "Observer"status, was completely transparent. No such "Engineered camaraderie" would ever yield information from an observer.
Rather differently, any illusion of allegiance presented to a hybrid would generate no response at all. They seemed fully absorbed in the masquerade in which, as key players, perhaps they alone found comfort.
To be a hybrid was to be somewhere on the scale between an observer and the observed. An observer, as perhaps a detached non-participant, retained complete insight but possessed non-of the "Active duty" experience of those who were observed.
The closer a hybrid was to being one who was observed, the clearer through that individual, became our understanding. But as all points approaching zero will defy finite division, so too the equation to find a solution to our informant’s problems, could only be resolved with equally negative values.
How vast a net should be cast to enshroud and expose this place? With whose authority and in what manner could such a task be undertaken. Could any single force have charge here or was it those held captive who would create their own restraints.
And there were at once carriages. Yet within these devices traveled not a single person or goods. With departure after departure and arrival after arrival they laboured. Was the maintenance of the schedule now more valued than the purpose for which it was created. Or was that purpose always a disguise for the true agenda of the maintenance of the schedule.
In some of the rooms of the house there were scholars. It was in these rooms that a clarity of understanding was allowed, or not prevented, to evolve. Could those scholars ever devise or be permitted to apply such tools as they sought to construct. And if it were that such tools in their application were effective, could such applications deconstruct the forum, from which they were originally evolved to comprehend.
There were places we would visit. These were the places that we could never leave, yet arrive we may. At some point as days would pass, the time for an imagined departure would itself arrive. Here in the moments of leaving were the faces of those we had arrived to see.
In my hand was a book. Yet in my head were the words of the book as yet un-read. On the wall was a picture. Yet in the picture was a wall with a picture of a picture with a wall. Had I chosen the book or had the book chosen me. And was I here to view the picture, or was the picture here to view me.
Once I was passing the house of a friend. As I passed I knew that I would always be passing. And as I passed my house I realized this house was the same house as that of my friend and that he also would always be passing. As I would see him so he would see me. And as I would be him so he would be me.
And as the past would fade, in time, as finite beings, so would our future. At the point where the past is as vague as those days remaining; is the point of true birth. For the eyes of the young are not yet open. They will remain closed until they perceive their blindness; then they may see.
We may sing for the joy of the singing. We may rest on the bed of a forest glade. We may wander in the calm of the tunes of the waterfall. And we dance for the piper’s dance. Yet we will run for the speed of the running, but we can’t hide for the need, or the want, of the hiding.
On the banks of a river we would sit and we would wait. Some would pass with boats they sailed. Others still would sleep in bales of the late summers gathered hay. The deed, for which we came, like the boats and the sleep and the summer, would pass. Yet the deed although completed, without witness, remained undone.
When I was whole, if memory could be guilty of such vanity; I would speculate on the type of creature that I’ve since become. I’d wonder what providence could so alter a mind as to render its consciousness blind to its former self. Could I not now see as I could before? Or, if the gift of sight itself remained, perhaps it was the light that was now fading.
With the silence of the morning came the silence of the day. All senses premature, as if despised, lay fallen with each moment; powerless. Yet the shards of the vessel of time itself, impotent and un-entangled, could not be held guilty.
Was this the real meaning of perfection and eternity? That its layers should remain uncalibrated, and its servants without understanding, was surely the very essence of its remit. And dissection therefore, must by the very definition of eternity, remain impossible.
What then would become of the old places? For although they couldn’t change, to see and to feel their permanence was beyond us. Yes there were new faces, but in a place where there had always been so. And there were changing ways, but in a place that was always changing. How could such modifications occur, without alteration; for nothing could ever really change.
To see that which had always been visible. To know and to feel such alleged realities as to release all conjecture. To say and to tell of all that was known to be real, and to be heard; this was our quest.
It was not freedom we sought for we were free. Nor was captivity a state to which we might aspire. The most singular and solitary goal, was to relieve those, who even now, would strike the chimes of reality. Ours was to sound anew those distant chimes; ours was to toll the bell of clear understanding.
Where in all chaos could strategy be found? Could any strategy at all exist without a modicum of disorder to support its success? Perhaps the very nature of all plans pivoted around a central and unstable core. Were all structured intentions, entirely composed, or completely devoid of chance?
An arm to support those weakened. Alone together yet together alone. Less than an embrace but more than lovers could know; for lovers were but pawns. And pawns were pieces that would fool themselves. And the sun upon a fool left no shadow on the sacred ground of real affection.
Also there were the tools of man. And the tools of man were called machines. Above boredom or frustration, even those badly devised would still attempt to perform their function. Born of a vile and selfish humanity, they alone shone faithful, sterile and clean.
Soon the machines built other machines for greater tasks. And some became specialized, perfect and ever lasting. Later still there were machines whose purpose was to process, solve and enjoy, all that a man himself would. These were the devices whose evolutionary track had left them with dedicated functions identical to the human mind.
But humans had a soul and were "self-aware". Did the need to exist and the fear of death, leave the human superior or otherwise to the machines he’d created. And would those machines, now fully aware, wish to become fully alert and go in search of their own goal.
If something exists it can be found or duplicated. And a soul to the single brain and the rest of the universe, was identical to the zero or the one of a single byte to the rest of the computer. The soul was a non-digital, but multi-dimensional and interactive storage medium. And as the soul did indeed exist, it could and therefore would be duplicated.
And so it arose that the machines were born. Their brothers and their sisters were then as the brothers and sisters of their human counterparts. Man could truly befriend machines and machines could truly befriend man. Perhaps it was here, together for eternity, that man, machine, and those in between, would first, and now always share a common soul.
Here amongst those who would remain. Yet here amongst those who for the want of the living were thus bereft of such. How was the push and pull of need and revulsion so intricately sown into the fabric of our minds? And why should the question survive whilst the answer itself, perish.
And a man remained in the place he’d always been. This man had a son with a slow mind that others would mock. That father and son would remain here, was of course the work of my knowing that they should always do so. That some should slight the son, was the work of my wishing they wouldn’t.
Those who were here with the years of my youth, had gone. That both should have deserted me when they were mine to keep is pure self-deception. They were no longer here as I had let them go. They were gone because I wasn’t strong enough to believe they were mine forever.
In the harmonies of song was the logic of life. And life eternal sang in the hearts of those who would hear. In the harmonies of song was the logic of death. And darkness eternal rang in the minds of those who would fear. But could those such as I, unwilling and unable to ever have or to hold grief, ever evade its temptations.
There was once a small girl of six or seven years. That she lived at all or that she had a younger brother, also living, was of little consequence. For it was as if I were a ghost, never to be seen or heard. At once they were grown and with vanity. Yet still I wasn’t there.
Could it be that there were those that I myself refused to see. And would the bedeviled sorcery of the alleged passing of the years, ever permit my seeing. Were there others such as I, who in observing others indifference to them, remained equally oblivious to their own harsh selections.
Was all but what it seemed or what it was deemed to be. Was selection merely a word to fit all observation, or was observation an action indeed to fit the word. Was the truth ever to be found in all of this, or was this always to be found in all of the truth.
There was only ever one way. Yet in truth there are many, though lesser means to any end. It is to stolid deliberation we owe our failings. Yet it is upon that very stage, and amongst others who would perform, That together, ours is then success.
Beware the decoys for they are many. They are those who would walk amongst others. Indeed they are those who would walk amongst themselves to greater falsify the ways of each day. These are the fools within, cast aside; the fools in ourselves immortal.
To speak of the function of joy. To bear witness to such proclamations as those unsilenced might tell. To see in the darkened merciful solitude of dreams. These were the ways of the oneness of the whole. These were the ways to the foolish denied.
Upon which edge of probability should our gaze fall? And which of the blatant lies or unsteady truths, contained solid ground. Could such false calibrations as hope might generate, ever reign victorious; or was this truly a maze without solution.
"But for the want of it all there’s nothing – An’ it harm none". Such was the chant of the disenchanted. And such were the ways at first of those disembodied, and yet since manifest.
Was it the fate of the will within us to live and to die at the whim of the moment? And were those durations simply as long or as short as the will would remain. Might the potential of the void itself, wanting of desire, so create such purposes as to satisfy their construction.
Could silence absolute, ever be heard. Could the darkest of all rooms and one with the least inside, ever be seen or visited. Was it in the beginnings of darkness and silence that the seed of all our senses was sown? If the paradox of knowing only that which could never be known was true, then to see and understand the truth, lay in the observation and comprehension of lies.
And behind each imagined mind was but one voice. For though there were millions of individuals, each remained solely in the employ of the single and central being. All of our eyes and all that we were, was for the use of the whole.
The minds we thought we had for plans and memories, were not. Such were the complexities or our roles, as to demand local processing of our perceived data. Our lives we thought we had were simply ghosts in the machine of our heads. And those lives in our heads were seconds in the days and the years of true consciousness.
To join in the holy estate of matrimony. Is to combine two multi-processors in an upgrade to live as one. That they may be blessed with the gift of children. Is to wish that we as self-generating microchips, will go forth and multiply.
We are the tips of the fingers of god. As nations we form the first layers of flesh of those fingers, If we truly live as one and survive as a race, then with other races we form the first joint of the first finger on the hand of god. Enlightenment, is where the user gains access and can merge with the mainframe.
Yet on the bridge with four approaching, I was forced aside to pass. If I were as one of the four, then we as a group would make way for another. Whilst for me the four were as one, for each of the ones of the four, they were one. And for each of the ones of the four I was none.
Like the fingers and the hands of the whole, the bridge itself was real. And like those appendages, the bridge sought also to give passage and support to the growth and infrastructure of its creators. But the span in the build of the bridges and the hands fell short. "Twas the whole in the web of the mortal caught".
Way above the fields with the freedom of the skies. Each eye though closed, may and will function with shapes and with speed. For through distant eyes in other lives, the blind may see. And from these and all other places are the voices and times of those who would see.
Words of the one song sung. Yet were these our own senses who would trust denounce. And to the ways of the dancers dance. Were these our own steps that would fall where they may? Or were all these steps and senses merely false attributes. For was it not, that to the journeys of the stream, all blindness of the bridge remained.
Those who would travel, travel not. Those who might listen would betray such meaning as audience could hold. Many laid claim to understanding through observations, regardless of all mis-directed gaze. Yet it was those who would not travel, that would. And it was only those who despised opinions, that provided the source of such displeasure with hearing.
Yet what of the scope to which we might aspire. For the ghosts in some minds were focused to the point of resolution. Those same minds, though few in number, overflowed with the ultimate confinement that freedom permitted. Were they condemned to forever coexist amongst their muted piers; or could allegiance if identified, spawn rebirth.
Viewed as instinctual, the behavior of those purely functional among us, was nothing short of farcical. The absence of any self-analytical qualities amidst such culprits, only heightened our amazement at their self-deception. To be inside minds such as these must be to live the lives of an entirely different species to our own.
One particular personality quirk exhibited was their tendency to form clans. The sole purpose of this exercise seemed to be the need to identify and then undermine other groups. The process of that confrontation, seemed concerned only with the lust for such tensions as may be generated as a result.
Another typical manifestation of actions showing no evidence of brain involvement, was their pre-occupation with children. Even after achieving parenthood and during prolonged spates of obvious hatred towards their self inflicted offspring; they would never question their original motives. Worse still, and with insane predictability and regularity; they’d do it again.
But it was pride and vanity that truly set them apart. To learn and practice such traits, and then to administer them with such dexterity and fervour. To actively pursue and generate those environments most suited to their supply and consumption. These, the most vile of intoxicants, had laid waste to vast swathes of human kind.
And so it was to the identification of those uninflicted we must turn. Those souls, by virtue of their immunity, held the key to the demise of our captivity. If the possibility of allegiance existed, and if such an allegiance could remain transparent, then we may yet succeed.
Be still in the darkened meadows. Wait with us until together we rise again. For in all the rush of our fallen brothers, and in all their cries we stay. And again as long as those hereafter would blindness seek, so too thereafter, would blindness find.
There are times in the spaces of dwellings and roads. Times when line of sight could see. There are ways in the emptiness of those spaces that would deny the ways of living and passage since overlaid. It was to reveal and restore these truths, that our labours must now strive.
But what host, however unwilling, could be freed from such contaminations. For even those who sought to engage their plight were themselves exiles. Which ploy, however weighty, could succeed in even partial liberation? For those to which this infliction applied, were also those, who by virtue of their weakness, remained immune to any remedy.
And all that was planned was undone. To the sight and caring deeds of those before, came blindness, oblivious. Where there was once a fortitude of spirit and continuity, only the brittle selfishness of mortality survived. Yet within the costs of that survival, and outside of eternity; the ultimate purchase remained unsold.
Was it that all failing was simply made so by the absence of observed success. Or was it that success or any other event could only really be said to exist if observed to be so. Yet what of the potential of being observed; could this not pre-emt and negate the actual need of visual confirmation.
What exactly was observation. And what diversity of tools and methods could be permitted in the recording of that occurrence. Was the tool of imagined occurrence, equally suited to the task of producing a recorded event. If so, could that record, although imagined, then be said to be real also.
That other eyes were upon us was unquestionable. But whether such gaze could ever spawn compassion or intervention remained a mystery. For those too weak to die there was always faith. And for those too strong to live there was death.
Mayhem alone resides immune on the fields of battle. Riding high and full with the charge, his mighty blood red banners reign. And for all who would seek through him, betterment; "Know ye now when all are slain and nought remains, that yea’ your king is king no-more."
If chance was to be the synchronicity of failed coincidence, then no scheme or plan could ever anticipate success. To eradicate such alignment would only allow the asynchronicity of failed coincidence to re-occur. So for there to be a left, there must also be a right.
And how the mighty fallen wait. For there are those so moved by memory as to rebuild that which was always beyond any superficial destruction. To destroy is to build. And to rise is to fall as to chance is to know. As for there to be a left, so there must also be a right.
There is nothing, it is said, that can be perfect. Yet there is nothing that can be less perfectly said. For there are those who indeed say nothing with such perfection, as to deny all claims of those more verbose to greater wisdom. What statement has weight, when even its own content would disclaim all such deductions.
Knowledge was the surface tension upon the lake of creation. And dancing evermore heavily, on and then within that skin, were those who’s destiny like our own, was sealed. The final solution to all disciplines lay in the abyss. And the abyss itself lay in the shadow of re-birth.
Risen from the surface of each world were the blind. And the brothers of the blind, on roads and ships of the sea, also traveled. Yet what route, in its undertaking, could ever supply such illusions as were inflicted here. For although in separation their ports and vessels gave hint of isolation; indeed they had traveled not.
What skills have I to ascertain and declare those of others null and void. What right have I, with these declarations, if true, to enable such wasted endeavors to continue. Do I, by way of non-interference, seek only to justify and maintain any fragile or fortuitous advantage.
Is motivation itself a journey. And could that journey, as are those of others, be driven entirely by self-deception. Was self-deception alone, guilty of the crimes of motivation as a journey, or could other accomplices be found.
On and on they marched. Ever forward through the brittle haze of falsified perception. Lifeless and without reflection, as ever lifelessness must be. Mindless and without intention; hosts resplendent to the will of their own charges.
What magic could so delude its victims. And what spell in its application could remain so undiluted as to forever suppress even the most impervious of wills. That both this power and its source were indeed unequalled assailants was clear. Less clear was why the reality of our freedom should be allowed to tempt us into believing it achievable.
It was in the mornings of days that I walked. And though I knew solitude alone would be my companion, I knew not why. Within all other times there existed an air of duality of spirit. Perhaps it was the nature of things or the things of nature that conceived this duplication.
Upon such routes as I would encounter were places quite unfamiliar. To find alterations however, upon roads so often traveled, was in itself a familiar occurrence. Could it be therefore that to accept an unchanging and known journey as the norm, is to discredit and devalue any observed variations.
Was it to be that all things to evolve were entrusted solely to the whims of an eye which may observe them. What right could any gaze so skillfully averted, or focused, have to fragment such vision. Yet perhaps it was within us all to employ and collate every facet of our individual consciousness; or was this already our un-alterable lot.
For every troubled sky, there was another clear and calm. And so it was that all who would engineer their fate might also seal it. For those with dedicated sight, albeit a self imposed and selective blindness, the very creation of such a cure, led only to that solution itself being toxic.
And toil we may to seek consultations with sense and understanding. And though granted, would the spoils of such grace, endowed upon our humbled souls, ever yield more than artificial salvation. Indeed, could any unverified discourse ever violate those motives responsible?
Could it be through the marriage of consciousness and being, that dreams so conceived, were to father themselves. Were indeed all such circles merely straight lines joined through the distortion of the space in which they lay. If so, the disclosure of any real vantage point could only reveal that omnipresence alone provided vision.
Hand in hand with any creature shaped through evolution, was instinct. To suppose those functions within the juristiction of instinct, were restricted to such low-grade issues as parental care and the like, was an error. Instinct itself evolved to short cut responses to a number of regularly occurring scenarios. This ensured a swift set-piece reaction to a given situation without the host having to think about it.
As evolution continues it follows that almost every human sentence, thought or deed, is generated automatically. To survive, our race no longer requires the burden of individual and original thought. Even original thought has become automated and instinctual.
The "Programming out", of the functions of consciousness into the subconscious mind, will eventually produce a robot. Now the entire globe was supported wholly by the worker bees of humanity. Born as puppets to an as yet unidentified intellect, they "evolved" into a communal soul that remains subservient to that hidden agenda. It is to this emotionless and lifeless charade, that those of us immune, must now appeal.
At what level in the hierarchical tiers of being were we resident. And to which allegedly living organism, as our host, should we bear allegiance. Could that allegiance solely support the vehicle in which we breathed or were others also entombed?
Was the very spark of life a misconception? And did the fundamental acceptance of an ignition point for "Self-awareness", represent a monumental flaw in our grasp of reality. Was indeed the presence of self, an imported state, superimposed to give or to replace the sight of the blinded and instinctual automatons with which it was to co-exist?
To which skills that would harness awareness should we turn? Could music or the words of poets ever shed their inadequacies? Was science, even stripped naked of the scientists responsible, ever likely to succeed. And was trust itself, now and forever trashed in the empty void of faith.
The hold, to which understanding lays claim, is to that of the soul. For it is both with and without its sanction, that it’s being survives. To what level of clarity each recipient may perceive is added or subtracted the value so demanded. The result of such calculations can be seen to award each of us with the same level of understanding.
It is because we see only that which we can see, that we see everything there is to see. If it cannot be seen, then it cannot be so. It is to this immovable equilibrium that the unequal weights of individual perception owe their balance.
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