Some people.

Some people are so beautiful they look like they are constructed from foreign particles.
Some people appear in pictures like divine revelations appear to preachers.
Some people look at the camera knowing full well what they do and who they are.
Some people do not.
Some people are as pretty as grass.
Some people have wide eyes and crooked smiles, but they're still dreaming in lucidity.
Some people wave their hands, some often don't.
Some people pretend it's a surprise, they never want to spoil the fun of life.
Some people carry with them the baggage of a lifetime of loneliness.
Some people look as light as air.
Some people look even lighter still, like neutrinos from the sun.
Some people just don't appear in pictures.
Some people don't want to be seen, no matter how contradictory it might seem to be outside and not wanting to be seen.
Some people just blend into the background.
Some people stare bewildered like several thousand girls galore.
Some people pretend to make of themselves small bits and pieces of art.
Most people are incomprehensible and irascible works of art.


I have an ugly smile and I hate getting my photograph taken.

-

I never want to have children, it is the most dishonest, hypocritical action I could ever take. I can't live knowing I'm propagating something as wretched and beautiful as existence, it would eat me up inside, it would tear me open more than it does now. I can't make the decision for anyone else, I don't want to do this.

No gods or kings.

"Nothing changes you—you change yourself. You are the ever-chugging power plant of life, the lonely light of reason in a howling, barren universe. It begins and ends with you—the outcome, the tally, the score.

You're foremost and final, arbiter and adjudicator, Pygmalion and clay rolled into one.

Your choices shape reality.

Our fathers' fathers learned how to be human through the agony of spear & sword, of steel and lead, of wounds and burns. Our mothers' mothers learned how to be human through the travail or birth and death, of fields and stocks, of steam and grime. The blood of survivors and killers, of explorers and inventors boils inside you.

Question being: now what?"

Because distraction eases the heart, I refer to the mind for freedom, as temporary as it may be.

Truth has been thought of as intransigent from times immemorial, but reality holds no place for any dictum or truism, everything comes apart at the seams at one point or another. Consider the following: truth exists only in the material, the unconscious altruism that builds everything up like a byzantine church. Truth is not, however, a property of matter, it arises as a result of the lack of distortion, matter is what it is always without the façade of a constructed sense or even delusion of being (being is also not an inherent property of matter, but I believe we've spoken enough about that subject to get a clear idea of my whacked out interpretation of it). An electron is an electron in itself but a point particle in function; a man is a man, an expression of matter, or the (limited) culmination thereof, but a provider, a criminal, a hero, a coward, a victim, so on and so forth, in function. The state of affairs is often thought of as immutable, and I would have, at one point, been tempted to consider it as such myself, still an important actor interjects with sublime grace, being unnoticed but at the same time often despised for its rapturous arrival, though invisible, felt in the marrow of our bones with chilling consequence. Ostensibly beached upon the shores of indifference because its place in reality is forever assured while ostentatiously disregarding affection for all things it touches, and it does touch all things. I am speaking about time, of course. Time is the constant that makes all things, all matter inconstant. From a sociological standpoint it has always been ontological in nature, given to the throes of moral and evolutionary relativity, but from a scientific standpoint it has always been a tautological matter: truth is simplified and reduced to the point where it loses its meaning, and not just its meaning, but its reason to be. When truth is reduced to a property of something then it becomes a a transient characteristic that is easy to overlook, there is no real struggle for truth at that point, it is there for cosmetic purposes. Time then has done us a monumental favor in its unconscious consequence, truth changes. Truth changes with the entropic ferocity that all matter, at even the most basic of levels, changes. Truth, the state of affairs, will always change as long as time remains inherent and intrinsic to the tapestry of the fabric of reality; these atoms that I have the audacity to call mine, to attach them to my ever-fleeting consciousness, are ever-changing. As a result, so am I. I believe this to be the connection between the ontological (in social terms) and the tautological (in natural terms).

It occurs to me that the struggle for truth and understanding is irrational because it relies on our own existence, not only that, but it needs of our perceptive ability to exist, bear in mind that this is a referential problem that should always be marked by a frame of reference of the conscious juxtaposed with the unconscious, of what is because it is and what is because it's made to be.

excess, excess, excess.

My heart fails me and I have no words.
As Wittgenstein said: "What we cannot speak of must be passed over in silence."

I am no better than Ezra

"I am lonesome after mine own kind and ordinary people touch me not!"

Who shall I say is calling?

I am constantly reminded of the inhumanity of the sleeping world around me, it is a dizzying realization. The experience is nonetheless sobering, like being plunged into an ocean for the first time or how it feels to be washed in a cold wave of water. Several months ago, I often wondered if it was a closer approximation of what was truly there, if a tree was truly a tree and not some alien caricature carved out of foreign components, if a mirror was really reflecting a man and not a shapeless image, a mimicry, a routine that repeated itself endlessly, if sound was words and songs and laughter or if it was just a vibrational pattern that inundated the senses and overwhelmed our receptors. The truth is that everything can be separated from its meaning, what is a thing anyway? Is it intent or is it a solitary expression of itself? The line can be drawn quite clearly between purpose and being, or perhaps more succinctly between being and existence, for what else do we see when we look upon something as austere as our hands? Some would gather it is a means to an end, a physiological tool that facilitates living and evolution, others see the extension of an organ wrapped around muscle and bone, and yet again others see the completion of self, the prolongation of the body. Whatever it may be, whatever perception we might have of our hands, the in itself remains the same, but we have fallen victim to the charade once again. Our hands are not hands but an expression of a geometric configuration, it is a chassis of a chassis of a chassis, like a babushka doll, there are shells upon shells of flesh, muscle, bone, of matter. And again, what is matter but an expression? The sum, the whole, the complete yet incomplete representation of existence; I am speaking of course of not only the atomic, but the subatomic. There is a thin layer of space and perception that separates being from existence, one of which is a limitation, a construct imposed by our condition, the other is a dynamic plane of existence expressed as distance in more than three dimensions. This is only half of the notion imposed by the conscious realization and subsequent acceptance (because realization and acceptance are one and the same when faced with this subject) since knowing this and being aware of it is a nauseating experience in and of itself. One looks at the tree, one is reminded of how inhuman it is, one looks at a mountain range, a rock, a stoplight, a pole, a drawer, a door and one notes the differences in existence: the familiar world you have grown so used to, that you have taken for granted per diem without devoting much thought to them are suddenly incongruous, shapeless masses devoid of mecca, the door is no longer square, the mountain is no longer a wave of dirt, the tree is no longer rotund or slender, their purpose is lost and all that is left is their existence juxtaposed with yours.
The response this elicits ranges from horror and anxiety to a rupture, a disconnection with the image that was carefully constructed, of what it means to live and to be alive, to experience to perceive. The rupture is necessary, the anxiety is vital, and all this self-awareness, and the awareness of other things that occupy swollen space around us is worthless if not for the final lesson learned from the disconnection, we live in an absurd world, for better or worse we are as children contemplating whimsical work of art, like fish caught in the rising tide, like dust adrift an ocean of constellations. It is no wonder I drift in and out of the banality of all things, sometimes forgetting and sometimes remembering, but always in a state of disconnection because I know, I truly do know that I am not there.

Romanticism of youth.

I think what I miss the most about my youth is that fabled, almost mythical phrase that I would hear from time to time. I miss how it lingered in my memory, it flirted with the chambers of my mind, it became the antipodes of what I was. Perhaps it is the stark pessimism of the times, an age lost in its vices, that makes me nostalgic for said days, still the truth is that all of this has been in decline since even before I started to miss those words. Ever the realist, sometimes I moonlight as a romantic, I simply wish I could return to better times, and perhaps the question in my mind is this; does anybody really think it's going to be alright anymore?

Someone, please.

Wave dynamics.

It always feels like a new beginning when you are faced with the prospects of meeting a new person. The terse introductory phase is done away with in a matter of moments and before you notice there you are, finding yourself constructing an image, a history, an entire alternate reality out of whatever new consciousness is spilling into your limited existence. What can only be described as a bifurcation of what one perceives as the general scheme of a life undisturbed and perhaps even somewhat resigned at times presents itself in the form of strange attractors. A pendulum, when swung, despite its rabidity, and for all its rebellious undulations will always fall to rest on the same position, this is the point attractor, this is where the system converges, this is where, perhaps, symmetry may be resolved.
I've only known of one molecule in my entire life and all too many atoms, and it is perhaps for this reason that I feel inadequacy when two strangers meet and bend like curves on a fractal structure, the redolence is none other than the temptation to believe in the chaos of it all, the sensitivity of the initial conditions, a word spills like the atmosphere, a letter splits like an atom, causality empties itself for our sake like a savior.

The truth of the matter is, if you, kind spectator would be as generous as to forgive such a serious assertion, that as much as I'd like to say that these things no longer excite me, they do, quite terribly, they do.

God used beautiful mathematics in creating the world.

"I cannot understand why we idle discussing religion. If we are honest—and scientists have to be—we must admit that religion is a jumble of false assertions, with no basis in reality. The very idea of God is a product of the human imagination. It is quite understandable why primitive people, who were so much more exposed to the overpowering forces of nature than we are today, should have personified these forces in fear and trembling. But nowadays, when we understand so many natural processes, we have no need for such solutions. I can't for the life of me see how the postulate of an Almighty God helps us in any way. What I do see is that this assumption leads to such unproductive questions as why God allows so much misery and injustice, the exploitation of the poor by the rich and all the other horrors He might have prevented. If religion is still being taught, it is by no means because its ideas still convince us, but simply because some of us want to keep the lower classes quiet. Quiet people are much easier to govern than clamorous and dissatisfied ones. They are also much easier to exploit. Religion is a kind of opium that allows a nation to lull itself into wishful dreams and so forget the injustices that are being perpetrated against the people. Hence the close alliance between those two great political forces, the State and the Church. Both need the illusion that a kindly God rewards—in heaven if not on earth—all those who have not risen up against injustice, who have done their duty quietly and uncomplainingly. That is precisely why the honest assertion that God is a mere product of the human imagination is branded as the worst of all mortal sins."
-Paul Dirac

A general assembly.

One man's actions implicate the rest of mankind, and thus the atmosphere of uncertainty is swallowed up by a boisterous roar. Today was a day when I first felt the exasperating loneliness of an abstracted crowd, but there was a simultaneous effect of camaraderie, and I was reminded of the words of Sartre; that freedom is the end meet of all good faith, in fact, the only true good faith. To my one-time brethren in struggle I offer my unconditional support, and what an unexpected surprise to find that the hope every man lives with, because he simply cannot without it, for me lies in change or even the promise, probability, or possibility thereof.

The future of man is man, and he will never be an end to any means because he is never complete, his situation ever-changing.

No words, no nothing.

I am little more than a charnel house.

The perils of wisdom.

I had no idea the generation that came after mine was such an unlettered group of idealistic children.

Grow up.

"Nature is Satan's church".

For several weeks I have been mulching over a hunch that crept upon my thoughts from a state of nonexistence. I have been struggling with how to properly express what I believe to be the human burden, what it means to take upon the mantle unwillingly and as if by nature of being mankind and being implicated in its artificial struggle for dominion over the self and ego, what is within and what is without as well. Then I came to a very peculiar conclusion; to think of how to express it or to express it at all was never the problem, it is in fact inconsequential, meaningless, trite, vapid, and quite frankly shallow (though I deny any semblance of depth or even the existence thereof in the first place). What can be said can, must and will be said, but what cannot must be passed over in silence, and there is no shortage of things, ranges of emotions to ideas that cannot be expressed due to the frivolity of language. To assume otherwise would be to place communication, already a crude and arbitrary tool of reference and interconnection, on an altar it is unfit to reign over, too inadequate still to dispose of its body to all of humanity and, consequently, the humane. When speaking of an object it is clear also that we may never directly reference the object but a construction thereof, an image, a painting of reality but never reality itself, this is a basic limitation of language that is swallowed up by quotidian experience and that logic can only tread on, I am careful not to imply it is illogical because that, in turn, would imply that we could consider and think illogically and while there are fallacies in both arguements and ideas to truly be illogical is to simply not exist, it is a natural, and quite logical limiter, a boundary in our minds that is all to real. Since we cannot directly speak about an object it is implied that we can instead describe it. A description is different from understanding, as I have stated before, the nature of an object and the limits of our own perceptions, beset by psychological, biological and physiological inadequacies, make it impossible for us to truly have a consolidated experience or to grasp the whole picture, as it were. These approximations are not only the result of a miscommunication between us and the great out there somewhere, but also an inability to really comprehend our own chemical processes and how they relate to reality and our experience with it. Even as I write this now I feel it rise up in me like bile, I cannot in good conscience and complete honesty define the world around me, and that disturbs me greatly, but I must recognize it as a product of ego, the dichotomy of my realization of self and the realization of things, it is however more than just the desire to realize things around me, but the actual grasping of it that is inherently nauseating. I dare say inherently because it is a similar experience for everyone, though not exactly the same of course. This realization, this nausea is the answer that I had been seeking, it is the words, the verse, the treatise, the abstract, the philosophy, the theory, the truth, the paradox all at once. It is not a matter of expressing the burden, but the product of it, the causality defined by the effect it has on man, this is what I believe to be truly important. It is more than simply the knowledge that all things attached to being human and the humane are a burden, but the discontinuous awareness that comes with it, the fruit is the realization and therefore the acceptance of how disjointed reality is and the subsequent nausea that follows. It calls to redefine the meaning of depression because it differs from the intent of the word, it is a literal indentation of the self, the realization that by being in spacetime you are sinking in it, that your 'self', both physical and psychological, expresses itself artificially as concave when the truth is there is nothing to be filled. This 'depression' is in reality the nausea of being, the nausea of brushing a quantum of the vast, impersonal nothingness that surrounds all things, the inability to coherently and systematically separate right from wrong and the realization that there is consciousness and then there is not, there is life and then there is death, and for all the frenzy in between it still doesn't mean anything.

Daytripping in the belly of the worm.

My preparations for the day were scarce. It was a Friday and I had but one class, which I decided to skip for the sake of actually enjoying my day without the added mental pressures of assignments or unnecessary distractions or even physical lethargy that goes with attending this particular class, but I digress. My preparations simply consisted of listening to some of the music I usually listen to and thinking alone in my house. The day was off to an enjoyable start, but, as it would turn out, it would be a lesser point. My friend M and I were to go out today with an aim in mind: I was to experience my first day under the effects of marijuana. The name is so silly when written down.
Our plans were delayed slightly by an inevitability, one that was rectified by chance, we were to meet at 11 or so but ended up meeting at around 5 PM.
Having just arrived, the events had already been set in motion. We had gotten in M's car and drove off to pick up her friend, who will henceforth be known as D. The drive was short but pleasant, and we had arrived at the train station before I had even had the time to consider the actual distance and time that had elapsed between our point of departure and the point at which we made the scene. D was an amicable fellow, in fact everything about the compact atmosphere of the vehicle we were in was comfortable, there were no pretensions or artificially crafted settings, everything was as normal as it could possibly be, that is to say, natural, real. Not five minutes had past since I had formally been introduced to D when he suddenly hands M a curious-looking bag, an emerald pouch that looked like it was in dire need of freedom, it burst almost by looking at it.
The sequence of events that lead to the actual usage of the drug was more like a lucid blur than anything else, one moment I was captivated by the gleaming smile of the sun bouncing off everything as it showered the world with a pounding warmth and the next I was being handed a peculiar object. As fortune would have it, the object was really a transportation device in disguise, meant to augment the edges of the mind, to turn one's self into a receptacle of sorts where information not only traveled but was stored and processed, churned infinitely by chemical agents resulting in a shower of experience that trickled down with noise and brightness. I took around six hits total, M and D took just about the same, though perhaps the effects were more obvious or easier to recognize to them. I did not feel as if anything was out of place until perhaps the third or fourth hit, even then the out of placeness, or strangeness, was harmonious and even. There was no peculiarity worth nothing that would make it a disturbing event or even something unnatural, on the contrary, it actually felt natural, perhaps the effects weren't all that pronounced in my system or experience I knew that it was in me and it was congruent to my thoughts, it was almost as if I had an excuse to see the world the way I have been as of late, an enhancement of sorts.
One of our destinations was a mall where M wanted to eat, after that we were going to go play on some arcades which at the time seemed like a very, very fun idea. Our plans were faltered by the almost obnoxious number of all sorts of underage kids present, thus we moved on. The trip consisted of a trip within a trip, I was under the effects while riding in a car with M and D and it was mostly centered around conversation and music, though at times my mind wandered, distracted by the colorful spectrum of lights and sounds. All too often they collapsed into a brand new melody, everything had a life of its own, a synesthesia of sound and color warped by the notion of velocity and motion, it was a landscape of its own, and I feel as if I was part of it with the right two people (and for this I am eternally grateful, the atmosphere was so calm I was not once preoccupied with worrying about silly peculiarities). As the sun descended like colossal remnant of the Perseid shower that had ended just days before, M was dropping D off at his house where we were indulged by his mother, who was an extremely interesting and intelligent person. Again, still under the subtle effects of the drug, the conversation that ensued was very enjoyable to simply listen to, my participation was limited but it was difficult to feel as if I wasn't a part of it, not only because I was being addressed but the nature of the words seemed inviting, as did everything around me. Tonality was important and I seemed to be focusing on that more than the actual words themselves, though this is where I believe the effect was starting to wear off, my mind's pacing began to slow down and as if by literary machina so too had the world wound down with me, the night was warm, but silent. An universal warmth that seemed to permeate every binding and refused the superficial tendency of all things, to eschew one from the other, it was a cohesive warmth that seemed to swallow certainty and put my consciousness at ease.
All things considered it is not an experience I will soon forget, it was honestly just fun and enjoyable, and I look forward to repeating it, as I have found that the best approach for these manners are simply to approach them as objectively as is humanly possible and to simply let it flow.

That which the flesh is heir to...

There are days when fortune's taciturn smile shines like a razor, she begs the whole of reality's wonders to bleed profusely on the insignificant personage clinging to its threadbare fabric, and it is on those days I feel as if I could die a happy death.

Today is one of such days. I want to kiss every molecule in feverish desperation to say what by law of language and tongue is impossible to say. And after all, what words are not swallowed by oblivion? They are as the cache of time, the quantum gifts that waste away all past, present and future, or at the very least the notion thereof, their wiles made neutral by its inherently entropic flow, but a tragedy by human examination, but I digress.
To love truly, whether it be life, person or circumstance, is to begrudgingly accept the truth: that it is not always possible to say, and what one cannot or may not say, then one must pass over in rapt silence. I dare not even call this joy, I dare not even sully or betray the dizzying reality of it all with my feeble words because the instant is near and gone without so much as a notice, what once was no longer is and to speak of it would be to grant it burial when such a notion has barely even lifted its sympathetic fingertips from my countenance.

The Mysterious Stranger.

"In a little while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless solitudes without friend or comrade forever--for you will remain a thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable, indestructible. But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself and set you free. Dream other dreams, and better!...You perceive, now, that these things are all impossible except in a dream. You perceive that they are pure and puerile insanities, the silly creations of an imagination that is not conscious of its freaks - in a word, that they are a dream, and you the maker of it. The dream-marks are all present; you should have recognized them earlier. It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream - a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought - a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities."
-Mark Twain

What is there to be said if Blake and Twain are indeed correct? Should man be willing to cleanse the doors of perception? To embrace the infinite? And to think all it takes is a thought, the will to be and to see, to abdicate the flesh and mind, to acknowledge and therefore become once again an integral part of the process that unifies and defines existence, the universe and all things confined within it are a process, one long, unwinding skein whose threads disenthrall softly as time marches on.

It is only right to crawl through the narrow chinks of my cavern. It is my most secret nature.

Keep doubting, Etienne.

Plans were made for next week, I will probably write about my experience then. I dare say that I am somewhat excited, best not to spoil it too much.

Soon!

Stay tuned...

Con ganas de nada. Those four words express perfectly my current predicament, I don't even feel like writing anything down about it, you'll just have to take my word for it- it's some sort of profound boredom and illness I have contracted from living, as distasteful as it sounds, I am dreadfully bored with how contrived beauty and even the search thereof is. I'm tired, it's unappealing to me, and it feels terrible, but I know it's right. I feel it dragging me down, but it's keeping my feet planted firmly on the ground. I mean I realize it's dehumanizing and alienating, but the predicament itself more strongly lies in the fact that I just don't care. Should that be what bothers me? I'm just banking on the fact that it should be, it's of no particular interest to me anyway.

I suspect there's not much to be done either way, until I wake up one ordinary morning and suddenly all those things that felt artificial to reach for, or to want will no longer seem like so because I will no longer have been looking for it, and while attempting to slip by with the unremarkable flow of the day it'll have clumsily stumbled into my mind. These things are as predictable as sunrise, sunset,


repeat ad infinitum.

The illusion of futility.

An acquaintance of mine and I discussed, rather by accident, the futility of living. Granted the conversation was not nearly as grim as the subject and syntax would invite it to be, but that is neither here nor there. He mentioned something that was particularly interesting which I shall paraphrase (in a more flowery way of course); despite the futility of living and exertion, the end result to which we all render contributions to, whether willingly or otherwise, is entropy. Death itself contributes to the slow disentanglement of the universal fabric, and this got me to thinking that every action we take is a sure conductor to the eventual disarray of all things.

What a horrifying truth it is that every expiration, the triviality of every stroke my fingers dare to cast, the dimensional articulation my body is limited to, such a weak and paltry materiality could ever hope to disturb the universe. Perhaps even more marvelous is the beauty this inherits as it coyly slips between our oblivious hands, the truth hidden within a truth, how tragically and how fascinating does it hide its wonders in plain view, and how envious I am of the learned astronomer as he gazes attentively and with perfect silence, he hears the atoms tell of our secret lives.

Further digressions.

Once again I find myself loitering about, vaguely passing from moment to moment. Allow me to dwell on the past for a moment, if you will, referring to the previous post (perhaps more succinctly, the last couple of posts). It is not very often at all that I am given to such lurid displays of rampant emotionalism, that is to say, I'm not a man who lets his persuasions get the best of him, but of course, when it happens, then it certainly does happen. What can one do, really? Given the space, the freedom, the secrecy, one would admit to just about anything. As long as it is true, of course. Perhaps this is already enough time spent dwindling over the fire, strew about some cold words of encouragement, maybe to make myself believe what I mean. It is difficult to say now, to be quite truthful, I believed the weight of the matter could be suffered upon a circumstance, but come now, I'm no child, I try not to be a fabulist, and I would not consider myself particularly deceitful, quite the contrary, I value honesty as perhaps the highest virtue man could ever hope to achieve, as such I try to retain honesty in my judgments and experiences, the most important of course being the latter. What have I to gain from duplicity? Glory belongs to oblivion, our existence is so delicate and ephemeral that all traces of fame and the grandeur we adorn ourselves with, for all its splendors and effulgence is tarnished by entropy, time itself abnegates its denouement, vainglory, vanities, ostentation, narcissism, all things end in nothing.

Few thoughts comfort me as these do; the dispersal of atoms, to scatter my breath across the universe, that perhaps one day these trembling hands will finally be still.

Tanta stat praedita culpa!

Lo, all circumstances that had kept me from my thoughts have been stripped away violently like lightning lashes the Earth skinning its beautiful skein, exposing the desperate maladies it so coyly tries to hide. Well to you I say "Bleed, noble Earth, be exsanguinated you unclean loess, let your cinders be besoiled by the truth; defile, draggle, foul, sully, and tarnish to your will's contempt and let the pain strike you where it hurts most".

My most triumphant return, and perhaps most importantly now King Lear need not laugh alone, for I too laugh at gilded butterflies.

Cotard delusion.

I don't exist today. I am just a cloud of smoke trying to take up space.

Of subtle observations... (and small irrationalities)

I am fond of the feeling I get when after being bed-ridden for about a quarter of an hour I stand and slowly feel the blood rushing from my head. It flows down like a gushing wound's waking consciousness and there is only me watching it breathe for the first time, the languishing self-awareness is sufficient to rekindle my connection to Earth and bring the fantastic ideals, the unrealized romances, the ornery dispositions, the austere ideas and my childish infatuations crashing to a soundless halt. I want to be mad, to be in the throes of the aberrant and cull from the sublimely beautiful crux of a stranger's heart.

Sometimes I really do think there is something ever so slightly wrong with me.


_________________________________________________________


I have been sitting in the same position for 5 minutes memorizing the patterns painted on my wall. I think of changing the world too, and though my thoughts race in the neural pathways of my mind like particle collisions at the speed of light, I cannot even pull together the space that separates your strangeness and mine. Space continues to expand, time continues its unilateral and entropic flow. My wall has no new patterns for me to follow.

Repetitive structures.

Has there ever been a more adequate and eloquent description of the universe as repetitive structures? I would be hard-pressed to believe so. At the most fundamental level of matter there are thousands of particles fluttering about, their paths are traced out by no discernible force and traveling these seemingly random trajectories they meticulously carve out the pathways of existence. The form and function of all things is defined by the movement and the subtle arrangement of atoms and at an even more basic level the harmonic vibrations of strings; existence is the crescendo of this timid composition, and while not consciously aware of its own (and perhaps the one and only true) power of creation, they are as driftwood floating endlessly in the voluminous tapestry of space. Proverbial waves ring monstrously even in the empty vacuum that contains it and as if the spoken word of an ancient prophet was suddenly filled with life and brought into creation by the breath of his deity a new entity becomes real. What is perhaps even more fascinating than the thought of natural creation is the fact that such a thing as a smallest subatomic particle simply does not exist. At a quantum level, size is a misnomer, the word loses its meaning and ceases to exist completely, instead the notion is replaced by point particles; particles that literally occupy no space, contrary to neutrons or protons which are essentially quarks held together by a strong force, the apparent size we are used to measuring is the result of this force interacting with the quarks. Thus the resulting particle thrust into reality by a string vibration is a point, a small, immeasurable point lost in the crude frame of per diem existence.
Although the irony is lost on us, nature appears inherent unto itself, her graces adorn her faithfully and there are no details whatsoever to spare. The quarks form an integral part of all things, without them there would be no matter, no beauty to speak of. If you would imagine for a moment, the results from their interactions with forces also born of the harmonies and compositions of strings work to compose another cosmic melody, the birth of a proton. The process eagerly repeats itself, the string vibrates in different resonances, different notes plucked from the strings scattered about the most cradled dimensions ring true to form neutrons, perhaps another note to form an electron. These particles, once thought to be the most fundamental pieces of matter, interact via nucleosynthesis and from this process elemental particles are birthed. Following the birth of the universe, what existed was plagued by high temperatures, facilitating the fusion of these particles and elements and separating them in two categories following a cooling process: heavy particles and light particles, whereas antimatter formed as a fraternal twin to all particles, fade from the picture and are thrown into obscurity. All this within a second of our universe exploding into the canvas, setting, painting and artist almost simultaneously and in that precise order.
Should we forward time to the fading present we will find that the process is ongoing, like notes strummed and plucked, the strings of symmetry are comely grieving violins, engrossed in their symphony they have wrought an universe's, or a thousand even, worth of melodies, the reach of their rhapsody extends beyond all visible matter as it raptures more and more into its captivating sonata; all particles, all atoms, all objects, all men, all emotions, all thoughts, all epiphanies, all ideas, all interaction, all matter and all creation swoons for they hear the music of their maker. The beauty of symmetry is such that it revives in me the awe of existing time and time again, and I cannot make myself to forget the repetitive structures that play over and over again beneath the skein of all things.

The Summer of my discontent.

Perhaps the two-part combination of restless inactivity and the smoldering heat is to blame for my recent lack of motivation, or perhaps better put, inspiration. It's insufferably warm, and every day feels like a Sunday afternoon. Time beats slowly, the ebb that carries us from moment to moment has skipped its cue and it seems to have left me cemented in a fraction of existence that I am desperate to escape. Pressure flows inwardly from all sources and there seems to be no relief in sight, this damned heat carries it all with itself and diffuses it within my mind, along my body, it consumes the world around me in a blaze of ignominy.

When will the summer end?

The loudness of flesh.

There are times when I can't fathom how human contact takes place, or perhaps more succinctly, how human beings could stand it. Flesh scrapes against flesh like nails over a chalkboard, the skin of another exists loudly, like a thousand supernovas expanding before you. It may sound like a terribly foolish thing to ask (and perhaps in retrospect I will kick myself for ever writing it down for anyone to see), but why does wanton desire exist in a rational setting? It is mildly disturbing that perhaps those who are more indulgent with the matter would be quick to laud it with a loud plaudit while completely disregarding all forms of sensible consideration- of course I am not denying that the desire to feel one another isn't there, but the fact that it involves each other is sometimes disheartening for me.
How should I better explain this? Humanity is immured within its own pagan temple, we are at no loss of offerings, burnt sacrifices and incense to lay down zealously; however the temple renders no praise to any god, the temple is swollen and ancient, it is fat and rotting, its very worshipers endeavor against it in a slip of madness and confusion. Flesh pulsates like a wound, from within it writhes and rips the muscle tissue raw, it is perhaps too bloated, putrid even. Again, that is not to say I have no desire for flesh, it is not I who harbors this madness, but the madness itself harbors me, I am bound to it by physiological function, it is desirable, it is natural, but when faced against conscientious consideration, it's almost disgusting. I believe it all has to do with the noise of existence. All objects generate their own harmonic waves based on the vibrational pattern of their atoms, perhaps even deeper still by the vibrational pattern of their strings.
There is a certain noise that follows as a 'thing' is constructed to serve a function (rather than being inherently 'it') by way of geometry, how the separate lumps of matter are placed together to form a possible object; the atoms coexist and are arranged in euclidean (and non-euclidean) geometry as we all have come to know; the sound waves are amplified and though you could not directly experience it as a part of everyday life, it is there. It rings loud and true and sometimes low and meekly, but everything bears its own noise. Even darkness which we have come to so comfortably define as inaudible and mysterious bears a tell-tale pitch, that is how we know darkness overcomes us, the eerie hum that an opaque wave of sheets carries permeates our minds more than we'd like to allow it. I recall an afternoon when I was leaving my car and I was walking towards a the train station, something, that at this point was still unknown to me, beckoned me to fix my vision and full attention upon a green pick-up truck adjacent from my own vehicle. I did not know it then, but I slowly realized how loudly it existed, its ugly gaudy colors, the elongated and thick shape of the frame, the black windows and battered wheels, and of course if that was not enough, a careless man managed to bump against it, making contact with the vehicle suddenly thrust me out of the daze it had swept me into, I was aware once again of my surroundings, but particularly of the man that bumped against it. The man now existed too, not as an extension of the matter around him, that is to say, not as another geometric creation of atoms, but he was an entirely different entity, he could move, yet he existed with less fanfare than the vehicle ever did, perhaps it was his silent way of walking, his timid expression, he was a little like me, perhaps he too wanted to coyly slip between the cracks of space and time merely to observe... yet he did not, be it on accident or on purpose, deterministic or otherwise, he touched the car and by extension he touched my mind, my thoughts- though all of this was quickly overshadowed by what followed merely moments later when the vehicle's automated alarm system was activated. The noise was everywhere, the car's noise was everywhere, it penetrated the matter around it and that which was not penetrated merely reflected it making it ten times as loud and clamorous. It was the boisterous roar of existence, such a simplistic example, but there it was, it was no longer feint as it had been for the rest of my life, it was just everywhere. The sound prompted me to react, quite negatively at that, because I could not bear it, I felt the contemplative silence in my dissipate and my thoughts slip away into oblivion, it felt as if all there was or ever would be was that infernal resonance; and such is the way of flesh.
For all its hubris, it is clear that its charm shall never escape me and though it may blare, sometimes incessantly, to refuse its beauty too would be foolish. It is the indiscreet indulgence in its paroxysm that always coaxes memories of the loudness of flesh.

Dysphoria

Every day the speed at which Earth rotates decreases by 0.002 seconds.

Siao-sin.

I have found that as of late the mornings on our timid little island have been nothing short of unbearably pleasant. The weather has cooled down considerably in sharp contrast to the objectionable heat wave that had washed upon us, a most welcome change. Perhaps more importantly the cold also marks a stark silence in all things; it is as the birth of the universe, after all the fanfare and loudness of existence and creation in a fraction of a second comes the deceptively simple quiet.
The universe was a cold, opaque space merely 3 minutes after its conception, emptiness proliferated in what little space had expanded and though its fearful symmetry had since been devoured by the violent rapt and strewn fabrics of reality it was very much at its preferred state. Yes, nature, though ruthlessly fair and neutral in its adjudication had already chosen its natural disposition, the tense span of its dimensional gamut was a strain it could not bear and thus a separation was immanent, this is in fact how the world as we know it eventually came to be, it splintered from a 10 dimensional universe to a 4 and 6 dimensional universe; imagine if you will a small bed sheet wrapped tightly upon a large bed, if you somehow managed to successfully cling each corner the strain would be so great that eventually the sheet would either rip or pull one of its corners free, returning to a state where less potential energy is amassed. The most natural state of energy is to be free, no matter how one would endeavor to seduce it into captivity one would always fail to harvest it for long, water trapped behind a dam wants to flow, helium inside a balloon wants to escape, an object traveling at high velocity wants to collide with another, it is just how nature behaves. And so it is the same with us, man wants to fall, man wants to escape, man wants to flow, man wants to suffer violent collisions at the expense of his own being because buried within us is the same inherent desire for freedom, the kind of truth that not only sets you free but disintegrates your body and your mind flinging your atoms free from its physiological obligations and dissipating your consciousness into the visible world and what lies beyond the infinite dusk at the edge of our universe. However to achieve this one requires more than just introspective devotion, one could swear off living in accordance to all sorts of social norms and never truly live his idealized vision of personal freedom and perhaps therein lies the mistake. What matter of freedom do we speak of when we describe it? Is it limitless possibilities? Boundless decisions unaffected and untainted by conscious objectivity? Is it a derailment or a complete segregation from the norms imposed on us since the day we are born? Is it shedding arbitrary morality and growing into our own version of it? These variables are too great to simply dismiss, these and many others simply stare at your face and taunt you as if boldly proclaiming that thousands of years of social evolution and human history could never be subjugated by a mere thought or action, however, and bear with me here for the idea sounds somewhat romantic, this is not at all the truth. These are addendums, side notes, annotations, footnotes, a mere supplement designed to drown the will to understand and replace it with the will to faith. What is freedom then? Freedom is knowledge, understanding of reality, to truly posses the cognition is not to simply see or hear but to pierce mass and matter and look within the constructs built around it and to realize that it is all utterly meaningless. All exertions end in nothing and our desires for freedom or captivity are all vanity because the truth is the one thing that immanently transcends all that is and ever will be, and this truth is nature and its own inherent properties, the nature of man is to distort and aggrandize itself and the value of its perception whereas the nature of reality is simply to be without the pretense of conscientious expectation of any kind, nature remains inherent unto itself, and this is the mystery I have uncovered, an idea so simple and austere most would choose to bury it beneath the weight of a higher expectation, a weight that is no weight at all, but an illusion as empty as dead space, and not nearly as beautiful. Embracing the emptiness of our struggle in no way cheapens our conscientious experience, not at all; it is the only way to merit it purport.
It is precisely in this silence where I could ever hope to see such a thing, these fleeting moments of stillness will soon slip into the coils of time, and they will forever leave traces of the truth imprinted on my mind.

The atoms of my youth.

My fascination with the unseen universe started at a more or less early age. I must have been around 6 years old when I first started to notice how structure and symmetry, as I would come to know it future years, play a large role in how everything exists.
My first experience was right at home. A television set is relatively simple on the outside: a large glass screen, a rectangular box that encased the screen in order to protect it, several inlets for RCA plugs, small buttons arranged neatly next to each other for various controls, and a corked rod with a small hole in it where you could attach a coaxial cable to receive data. As we all know, the inside is a completely different story, once you remove the plastic covering the television set has, there is another world within, in fact, it almost resembles a small city. Transistors, capacitors, diodes, all arranged atop a relatively small board plastered with magnetic strips that allows information and electricity to flow freely between the aforementioned pieces, and above the board lords a giant cathode tube; a tube which contains an electron gun (quite appropriately named since it the source of electrons in a cathode tube). Its main function is often taken for granted, the process that happens within is fantastic; the electron gun fires off an electron beam which is bent, accelerated and deflected to form the images we see on screen. One of my earliest experiments I recall was pouring a glass of water into a television set in my mother's bedroom, oblivious to the catastrophic results, my inquiries lead me to understand that systems depend on subsystems to function, and perhaps more profoundly, to exist at all.
The second encounter with a concrete example of symmetry and order came in the form of entomology. As a child I was (and still am) fascinated by insects, particularly ants. These little arthropods are meticulous in their planning, their execution is flawless. I would spend hours watching long lines of ants travelling from one place to another, they would occasionally bump into each other, however this would not dissuade or confuse them, they would simply feel each other for a moment and continue on their way. I remember thinking how mechanical their interactions with the outer world and each other were, when it came to foreign objects they needed only to probe its outskirts, sometimes not even nearing it to determine whether or not it was favorable to approach, in fact they rarely often ventured from the chemical trail left by the first scouts that had already explored the area. Their nature fascinated me and to this day it still does, such a high degree of order is worthy of admiration.
The third, and perhaps most meaningful encounter with the unseen world came when I was in the 6th grade. I must have been around 11 or 12 years old and it occurred in my science class. My teacher began to tell us about these very small objects known as atoms, she told us that there was such a great number of them contained in the universe, and even in the air around us, that we would go insane if we were able to see them. It was a particularly gripping statement, I had never considered everything around me as anything other than what it was, everything around me was simply defined by its function, as far as I knew, the world was an empty husk that man had filled with purpose. Looking back on it, her claim is perhaps one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard, as a child I believed I could see atoms. Sometimes when our eyes are still or focused, a thin, fuzzy layer of dots seems to cover our visible field, being an impressionable child I could only assume that these were atoms and that I was witnessing them fill the world around me, they swirled and danced elegantly swallowing everything up with their invisible graces and there I was, a boy who for no apparent reason was fortunate enough to see it all happening. Of course, presumably I am more educated now and I know this is not the case, but at times, when in the peaceful quiet of my solitude I ponder, and I often find myself staring into infinity only to find myself still trying to catch glimpses of the atoms of my youth.

An ad hoc introduction.

This is a personal blog that I will be keeping. In many ways it'll serve as a cathartic tool; to expunge just what I am not quite sure yet. To begin, some days I feel as if my sense of self is slipping, my mind disassociates itself from what is known as "I", perhaps it is the same symptoms D'aquili explained in one of his many research papers on the state of consciousness and perception relating to the world around us (or at least, what we perceive to be 'around us'). A temporary dissociative loss of ego would perhaps be the best way to describe it, the differences between myself and the natural world around me narrows, I no longer identify with rhombos (which will be my name from hereon) and perhaps it would be folly to call it a feeling, so let us for now dub it an eloquent kinship for all things universal and subatomic that overtakes me. An atom is no longer an atom in function, but an atom in being, its existence is no longer defined by its relationship to other objects in existence but rather relative to itself, to its essence, to what it truly is- which I am starting to realize we do not understand all that well, if at all. The precedent for this confusion has been set for well over a century with Thompson's infamous discovery of the electron and the subsequently inspired experiments, such as the gold foil experiment, that have in a way complicated our understanding of the building blocks of matter. Of course, it is now evident that we need not be confused by a mere set of three elementary particles (electron, neutron and proton) but a whole host of bosons, fermions, mesons, and quarks- who also, by the way, exist in a rich variety of 'flavors and colors'- as well as plethora of exotic subatomic particles that have been considered elementary since their discovery, an event that has left scientists somewhat baffled as they attempt to sort out which of the thousands upon thousands are indeed actually elementary.
Barring any further digressions, I believe this serves as an adequate introduction to the dilemma at hand, which is still, I am afraid, somewhat vague and nonspecific. It should bear repeating then that this exists mostly as an archival tool designed to keep my thoughts ordered as sometimes an idea would overtake me and it would seem as if nothing else matters... in fact sometimes my only desire is for the world to fall apart, to crumble at its foundations and leave only me and my thoughts so I could consider and expand them forever, I wish for everyone to disappear, relationships of all manners become inconsequantial and all that matters is understanding these almost prophetic epiphanies, these bits and crumbs of understanding that tear off ever so quietly and succintly from the frayed, yet unbearably elegant fabric of reality. I listen and watch for them every day in the folds of space, I can't help but be fascinated by their existence. All in due time, I suppose, because when there is no time it is apparent that we have all the time in the universe.