Chapter Ten

Lost in the catacombs of mental space something hid, patiently waiting for restlessness. Through the night it rose, as if the sealed tomb walls of reasoning cracked, splintered and fallen away by brute force. Sleep was disturbed, corrupted by deafening silence. I heard the rumble of the wild in the wind. Ever so softly it crept up on me, ceaselessly penetrating my skin, working deep into my bones. A constant chill, a constant itch. My lover heard the wild calling; she felt the wind rip through her sternum. Between our cheeks the wind roared, raging war against rationality.

Fire and water now held captive in the movement of wind. Pulling us here and there without transition. Fifty thousand miles were slowly coming to an end. It is time to start anew, to challenge the mind forevermore. The stages of a butterfly, spread out liked mapped anatomy, bisecting through passages of time, developing continuously until the raw, eccentric transformation is complete. A breathtaking phenomenon capsulized by the crystal truth of evolutionary adaptation. An idea spun through the wrinkle of time, transitory thoughts wrung out by the trajectory of blank space. Like the tiger swallowtail, infinitely adapting to change, we too needed infinite change. Adaptation was our most sacred characteristic, or genealogical trait. Whether instilled by Nurture or innate by Nature, neither mattered much for what came next.

Inner and outer forces had left an impacting effect on rationalization for us, but in full disclosed honesty, I full heartedly believe in the tactical, provincial leap of impulse. Fully guided, marginalized webs get batted away by the stringent pull of gale. Ripped to shreds are the ornate clusters of dreams speculated by spectators across the moon dripped sky. From hurling fireballs burnt out, to the lungful bursts of dandelion flowers, our meditative hopes trickle in the backdrop of elevated sanity. The raw truth unearths the plausibility, redirects the subconscious and distracts the perversity of self doubt.

Stagnation burdened our souls. It clogged our minds with sedimentary saturation, overtook our pores, soaked seamlessly with sustained severity and stained our sanity. Now sodden with a sardonic smile stupidity stole the sanctity of our salvation. I became engrossed with morbidity. As if all options were reduced and nullified. The frozen pretext of normalcy cracked; splintered in the heated race for the wild. I was enraged with a sinister impulse to infect the vast vocational vagrants of vanquished vanity with voracious vivacity. Delivering unto them, a decadent approach to the warped definition of civilization. Once jaded, indentured deprivation now clinging graciously to the convoluted truth of self interruption, or self indulgence, or simply, impulse.

For a while, years back in between the fog and ice, I leeched desperately onto impulse. It drove me mad with the imminent plausibility of infinite possibilities. In those moments I felt I could be didactic; I could diligently scramble to show the world this newfound rational. The possibilities are endless, as long as one understands that somewhere along the way there will be an end, or more optimistically, a new beginning. To all things fortunate and malicious, one in the same will collapse and be swept away into the consuming blackness. The key to successful impulse is best when corroborated.

Her and I in the brink of transition, sifting through the infinite cluster of possibilities, shredding reluctance, decimating resistance, to find and grasp an idea. So insignificant it may seem to the layman, so fastidious to the wanderer. An idea that compounds upon itself, continually redirecting like an overdrive AI on the fast tract to unspeakable knowledge. A multi morphing magnetic step geared to latch on, force polarity and energize. If I were to describe it, it erroneously wouldn’t appear impulse. A four, ten, or twenty step process to ultimate detachment. If steps were created then impulse cannot be formed. No? What if these steps were aspirations undirected, left to the will of choice and time? Cosmically hoped, dreamt yet everlastingly warped by chaos; gesticulating our predictions under an opaque ceiling of burning blue light. And that light, a billion clusters, we watch in reverse. For in time they have already died and burned out, but in our retina we watch the slow, gradual death through the eyes of a one second time lapse that we which confuse for eighty years. So in theory it all must be impulse. Every last breath and movement in this fabricated world built upon happenstance. Built upon guessing, acting, reacting, moving.

Every burden must die. Every obstacle must be dismantled. For it is neither here nor there. Somewhere in space they watch the burning blue light of Earth twinkle in the night. Pondering its’ once breath. Wondering what it must have been like, before it died. The human existence irrelevant in the backdrop of a billion other burned up stars.

I had become obsessed with the prospect of the infinity surrounded in its nothingness. When the machine was mentally stripped, bolts and metals set aside, the reality of the infinity became clear. So much of our one second world had been wasted on maintaining a false machine, dedicating our lives to a false ideal. I had spent an enormous amount of energy attempting in vain to revitalize what was built one hundred and fifty years ago by the devil himself. A sadistic, pathetic lie. A demonstration of hell itself on Earth. It took mental degradation and societal damnation to finally tear it apart in my mind. I watch now, in complete anguish as the world continues to fumble in a hellish time warp. Surrendering itself to copper conductors and forged iron.

I now live for an intersecting network of blood vessels. I live to pump oxygen. With no fear of the after, no frustration of the present, I am truly free to become what I have always been, subatomic particles amassed together by a chemical composition. I pride in my combination of Carbon and Hydrogen. Intermixed particles of Oxygen, Nitrogen, Calcium, Chloride, etc. This is me now, and in the then, still me yet stretched apart through space and time. This is the infinite. But, the infinite of infinities is developed in love. Life everlasting, devoid of the impractical machine. The divinity arises with the division and replication of cells. Be I not yet ready, in the temporal dimension we have already divided our atoms.

Temporary satisfaction through minute achievements is what ultimately lead to stagnation. This I see now and understand through rigorous mental clarity. Although this world damns the individual and makes it nearly improbable to be truly centered; it is a mission to constantly aim for sustained clarity. It is a lifelong goal to strive for minimalism. It is the only way toward trueness to the self, to the world, the universe and beyond. It all goes back to our plagued breadth of knowledge. All across the world humanity teaches the obtuse. An international cultural phenomenon raping the innocent mind with fallacy.

As her and I move across the world we have felt alienated, set apart from the rest. The more we see the harder it becomes to connect. On a collective scale we have become more secluded for the world knows nothing of love, light, beauty and soul. On the individual scale we find, yet rarely, those who listen to our words imploringly. All, so far, are helplessly trapped in the machine. None, not one, have we met truly free from the world and themselves.

Chapter Eleven