2025年3月31日

Excerpts from notes to self and passing thoughts over the past months:

A striking feeling. Butterflies fluttering. Time doesn't exist here. It's the observer being observed.

In a haze of liquor, he told me he would know the difference between Odile and Odette. He said when he watched the ballet, he imagined me as one of the swans.

I kind of want to contort into a non entity that is something and nothing, everything encompassing, devoid, full of glittering light like the dusk sun on a rippling lake, full of void like looking into a basement, my limbs stretching— the muscles groaning in delight as it’s time to get rid of the peculiar ways of the skin and flesh, insects chirping and looking through eyes of 100’s of windows, my pores seeping out sweet honeydew flower sap, my heart pumping and blood seeping through the various highways of life, and suddenly it all dissolves like sand and is washed away by the cosmos, and within that very moment, it smiles at me with a compassion that has lasted well over the beginning of time, because this will all return like a wave.

It feels good though, doesn’t it? That’s why you chose to return. Because through the suffering the great joys rule over all like some sword in the stone ready for you to grasp it.

I’m walking down, of course, ascending, mentally up the red staircase in my mind. But Escher-like as it is, I can’t tell which way to look or observe. Gaze upon the doors that tower 15 meters high, embossed with the story of humanity and your own soul. The sun is propelling us deeper into space as you read this and as I type this. It’s always been Me. It’s always been You. Wink at me and I wink back. Put your hand against the mirror.

Strange plants emitting fog and smoke, pursed like lips, red and dripping. Nature is the origin. We are merely imitators. Or something deeper like mycelium.

It’s already been Said. It’s already been Done. Replicated; and torn and pieced together again. But then the populace has made it into an Art. This then has been devalued.