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Can you deduce basing on one’s trepidations and heartbeat what notes and melody complete or fulfil them, precariously and intimately decomposing and striking? And what sophistication, what greatly mindless analysis is it when you acquaint a process/ surrounding/ issue/ object/ a person throughoutly, approaching in full immersion like the day you go through and not like going out into your garden from your house for a few mere moments that just make this escapade a trespassing event, without even looking at it! What patient devotion must that be to pay for the prize of entering its mechanism and presence emanating, even more when that “it” is what your mirror shows both to You and your body, or the sonorous car engine driving you insane, or... or finally reading the architecture of letters of a Book for the first time in your life with comprehending actually the story of the text or the painting that architecture gifts you! And still what a horrifying acknowledgement would it be if that “it” would be Life, Time or the World, anything like that in itself, and thus there would be no wonder left, no excitation, like living an immortal existence, a God that has gone to every corner of perception and galaxies, has witnessed every mechanism that then starts only to repeat itself nevertheless and constantly! And diverging from that, maybe the reason many minds believe that Magic and Literature as an apparent coming true in our passing are nonexistent is that we restrict it solely to blank pages we fill with imagination, to Child’s “fads” that are actually “freedoms”, whereas they are more than possible if we bear it in ourselves, as it was put in the Kybalion: As it is on the inside, it is thus on the outside. Like when I was standing just a while ago saying goodbye to the sea in shouting silent beauty of transparent words: the beach to my far left deserted by tourists and chosen by shadows with Sun and looming trees all of a sudden was more than verily a shore from “Robinson Crusoe” or “The Treasure Island”, just called to run and peruse no matter if something was waiting or not Or how now whenever I write instead of speaking to a person I do not differ them by their ID or biological data and make revelation of myself in the same Godly, well perturbating way like Pythia and don’t care if its a wise child, a seemingly important member of some affiliation, or stiff standard model in human skin. It is simply all multiple constant Metamorphoses.
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Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 6:24 PM UTC
Curtains, Clogs, Immortality in a Social Circle
Can you deduce basing on one’s trepidations and heartbeat what notes and melody complete or fulfil them, precariously and intimately decomposing and striking? And what sophistication, what greatly mindless analysis is it when you acquaint a process/ surrounding/ issue/ object/ a person throughoutly, approaching in full immersion like the day you go through and not like going out into your garden from your house for a few mere moments that just make this escapade a trespassing event, without even looking at it! What patient devotion must that be to pay for the prize of entering its mechanism and presence emanating, even more when that “it” is what your mirror shows both to You and your body, or the sonorous car engine driving you insane, or... or finally reading the architecture of letters of a Book for the first time in your life with comprehending actually the story of the text or the painting that architecture gifts you! And still what a horrifying acknowledgement would it be if that “it” would be Life, Time or the World, anything like that in itself, and thus there would be no wonder left, no excitation, like living an immortal existence, a God that has gone to every corner of perception and galaxies, has witnessed every mechanism that then starts only to repeat itself nevertheless and constantly! And diverging from that, maybe the reason many minds believe that Magic and Literature as an apparent coming true in our passing are nonexistent is that we restrict it solely to blank pages we fill with imagination, to Child’s “fads” that are actually “freedoms”, whereas they are more than possible if we bear it in ourselves, as it was put in the Kybalion: As it is on the inside, it is thus on the outside. Like when I was standing just a while ago saying goodbye to the sea in shouting silent beauty of transparent words: the beach to my far left deserted by tourists and chosen by shadows with Sun and looming trees all of a sudden was more than verily a shore from “Robinson Crusoe” or “The Treasure Island”, just called to run and peruse no matter if something was waiting or not Or how now whenever I write instead of speaking to a person I do not differ them by their ID or biological data and make revelation of myself in the same Godly, well perturbating way like Pythia and don’t care if its a wise child, a seemingly important member of some affiliation, or stiff standard model in human skin. It is simply all multiple constant Metamorphoses.
Notes sudden, granted, In reflections Of how all turns its entrails Inside out to you When you just consent To staying till the end And going all the way Through what they are On all planes
#philosophy#life#passing#direct#thoughts#time#change#witness
DanRo
Written by
DanRo
Agender
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 6:24 PM UTC
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