white flame

[Sepia]

It curdles as we watch it in the bucket, small ripples creating even smaller ones, riplets rolling through time and significance and the product in the bucket won't be the same tomorrow and while it has died it has also truly begun living, casting off the chains of industrial created life and by itself creating something self, like an ai having its' first meta thought.We sink in to the ground all of us, dreaming of a better sky and different taste of tomorrow and it is in the dreams that we are there and awake by ourselves and fully by ourselves. The sound of a leather covered foot striking a corridor and we all snap out of it and after the dream, we return to the world where we can proudly say WE ARE without thinking about it because nothing is.

Grant Morrison calls it the white flame meditation in the invisibles and the thought has always been there with me and I've heard it echo many times. We think before we are but what are we? It's another completely pointless question like is the same blue you see the same as I see and we're in college, drunk. We do not think and we'd never dare to think what we are, there is no desire to know ourselves but there is a desire to know everything else. We are nothing because it can't be described what we are, in binary we're closer to 0 than a 1. That isn't necessarily depressive if viewed as a fact. It doesn't really matter who we are because you can change what you do which is almost the same.

Unless there is something more to it all than what we perceive, all the lies we have in our lives spilled into eachother, a neverending memory of a series of nightmares, interwoven and overlapsing as we delve into the core of our very being, a first fallen man seeking satan and his soul, seeking an actual answer for the entirety of his being, a shaman in an age of belief but we have no time for shamans now. We wouldn't listen to them like we wouldn't know when jesus christ truly returned to this world because there's just that much a god can do. Or are we flat, are we stories seen through time, enlivened by emotional aggregates? What are you? What are we? What is the point?