the dream is dreaming itself, we are its subjects
the mysterious writing of life, its ellusive quest
an inflationary expansion was deleting its traces
zero degree of consciousness in a moving aliveness
strange rhythms around and strange qualia
there were attributes without letters at first
before a predicate turned into subject
life othering itself into much more in its own image
life was chatting with itself before the knower and the known
spinning the seeds of time, change: its true substance
I am you and you are me but we need
a symmetry break for the dawn of mind, the other of the body
so much was already done since life was rehearsing for eons its scripture, forms of habit, viable conventions
processing its otherness relentlessly
mind is this forest-creature exulting, hiding, defending,
breaking down, screaming, expulsing, recomposing, sprouting light and lightning
the very first thoughts traversed the barrier of vibrant void
their binding a translation of a body in time, a future storyteller
pure movement the nature of space, the wonder of above and bellow
the first qualia, tension and intensity, an unstructured flow of frequencies, a cascade of warmth, fullness, emptiness,
a body discovering herself, her unbearable, her rapture, the feeling of being
the centre is everywhere expanding, accelerating a creative chaos
thinking was just waking in the field of a dreaming body
thoughts needed to outgrow slowly their skin of imaginary beings
then again and again
dreaming keeps decomposing the already thoughts trapped in their echo chambers, their networked cocoons circle our certainties
a thought needs to die to create another, a sacrifice to the god of the unknown
oh how many deaths we have already died recomposed only by dreaming, the solvent from which reality is born
intensively your body is translating feeling into dreaming,
extensively the mind is dislocating dreaming into thinking
whille a distant star is crushing itself,
love rehearses its gravity,
death is saturated by its own dismay
perhaps poetry is this witness of silent cosmogonies
Feb 14, 2025
Feb 14, 2025 at 2:56 PM UTC
the dream is dreaming itself, we are its subjects
the mysterious writing of life, its ellusive quest
an inflationary expansion was deleting its traces
zero degree of consciousness in a moving aliveness
strange rhythms around and strange qualia
there were attributes without letters at first
before a predicate turned into subject
life othering itself into much more in its own image
life was chatting with itself before the knower and the known
spinning the seeds of time, change: its true substance
I am you and you are me but we need
a symmetry break for the dawn of mind, the other of the body
so much was already done since life was rehearsing for eons its scripture, forms of habit, viable conventions
processing its otherness relentlessly
mind is this forest-creature exulting, hiding, defending,
breaking down, screaming, expulsing, recomposing, sprouting light and lightning
the very first thoughts traversed the barrier of vibrant void
their binding a translation of a body in time, a future storyteller
pure movement the nature of space, the wonder of above and bellow
the first qualia, tension and intensity, an unstructured flow of frequencies, a cascade of warmth, fullness, emptiness,
a body discovering herself, her unbearable, her rapture, the feeling of being
the centre is everywhere expanding, accelerating a creative chaos
thinking was just waking in the field of a dreaming body
thoughts needed to outgrow slowly their skin of imaginary beings
then again and again
dreaming keeps decomposing the already thoughts trapped in their echo chambers, their networked cocoons circle our certainties
a thought needs to die to create another, a sacrifice to the god of the unknown
oh how many deaths we have already died recomposed only by dreaming, the solvent from which reality is born
intensively your body is translating feeling into dreaming,
extensively the mind is dislocating dreaming into thinking
whille a distant star is crushing itself,
love rehearses its gravity,
death is saturated by its own dismay
perhaps poetry is this witness of silent cosmogonies
