Good morning, I say to myself with little sophistication. What am I going to find in the rubble today, today, today? Long strands of shaders, of textures, of models I hope to decipher? Give me a glance worth gritting my teeth for.
I’ve found that the invigoration of jumping, sprinting, escaping: to flee, to move, to be fluid, to be passive, pacific, is more important no matter what the light, no matter what the time, what the arc says.
There is time in the slaughter. There is so much time.
Sometimes the greatest survival is seeing the ease of accomplishment. A sense of sustenance derived from consistency. Call it a handicap, perhaps?
What does it mean to be “great” and to hold “greatness?” At what expense? Whose ideas are those that we clutch? Our own? Or a fabrication of our own?
When light is created through violence, what does that make shadow?
Getting towards the end of things that isn’t even comprehensible. What is “end” just as what is “beginning?” How has this experience, these experiences, done anything else but destroy my conception the same way I destroy the anti-conscious drive of those who wail in torment?
Places, people, power. Delusions. Reclusions. The need to escape. The need to find a place that is better. That is what? That has more security? That might have the answers? How we generate knowledge through journeys. How we move from one space to the next, picking up insight as we go along. These things are where we find ourselves. Our bondage to knowing who we are.
Taking breaks delays inevitability. My hands shake. My blood matched a pulse. Let’s do this the way we think of doing it: efficiently, idealistically.
I thought I could take it. I thought I could take the responsibility to finish, to see through. I was tired. I had to stop.
As often as necessary, there will be a retracing. There will be a coordination of the self to meet the needs of the world around me.
I have come to approach this with rhythm, but also with urgency. With empathy, but also reciprocity. I always under and overestimate. At the same time, I do these things that put me off track, but I stay on as well, there is a balance despite the longevity of extremes.
I want to be crystal clear. I want to be as clear as the decay around me. I am natural. I am humble. I am better than all of this.
There will continue to be choices. Properly chosen. Properly made. Through risk, and sacrifice.
The idea of the turned. The idea that all things have come to this point, and there is no going back. What’s done is done. The conversion has been made. And there is no cure. Cure for what?
Being on top of the world: escaping any sense of blood by being in the sense of air.
I’m still surprised at the lack of madness in this bloodbath.
Silence all around us. The potential of more violence all around us. Violence of rooms, corridors, shadows, boxes. Bodies.
Maybe there’s a way we can all find ourselves here. Through this. Through this torn landscape.
What have I done to the face I knew existed within all this time? Did I vanquish it or retain it, somewhere deep, like a virus, asleep?