#entropy
THRESHOLDS — A CYCLE IN TWELVE PARTS
(Maintenance Log for a Failed Simulation)
I. Maintenance Log: Day 365
Status report: stability nominal.
Erasure parameters: within acceptable range.
Component wear: increasing.
Operator efficiency: inconsistent.
System note:
“No sentiment detected.
Proceed with routine.”
In the background,
the quiet ticking of processes
that no longer remember
why they were initiated.
II. Error: Erasure Module Malfunction
Alert: Delete key – unresponsive.
Retry attempt: failed.
The pixels of exile fray at the edges,
like stage paint
that has pretended to be a wall
for too many seasons.
A memory leaked
into the morning coffee.
It was scrubbed away,
yet the stain remained
on the porcelain.
III. Entropy: Human Resource Degradation
Operator: Great Eraser Technician, Level 1.
Condition: material fatigue.
Movements: delayed.
Grip: unstable.
Error description:
“Hand spasm during deletion protocol.
Possible hardware deterioration.”
Attempted deletion of non‑existent file.
Redundant process triggered.
Operator unaware of prior erasure.
Ghost files appear in the logs –
items that should have vanished,
returning as flickers,
haunting directories
that should not exist.
IV. Fourth‑Wall Breach
(Act II. The light falls too sharply.)
The backdrop of emptiness
begins to peel.
Cardboard doors,
meant to keep me out,
curl at the corners.
The Curator presses them flat,
but the glue won’t hold.
Her back is turned to the horizon,
eyes fixed on a peeling backdrop,
too occupied with maintaining absence
to notice the light gathering behind her.
This is no longer ritual –
it is cleanup after a performance
no one stayed to watch.
V. Audience View
From my seat,
I see only the janitor
with a mop,
struggling with a stain
that refuses to disappear.
And the system
that once tried to erase me
betrays itself with a single delay:
nothing here
is inevitable.
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 10:14 AM UTC
Entropy is increasing,
Slowly reducing order to disorder
Like all things must,
As confirmed by thermodynamics
And witnessed by aging,
To the point where all things
Weather,
Wither,
Die.
███████████████████████████████
Alive.
Love,
Loss,
Is the malady of experience;
A means to interpret energy
Such that
Whatever choices
You must make
The first law is final:
One conversion,
No waste.
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 5:57 PM UTC
no one prepares you for the middle of things, the long stretch of just paying rent and the strange feeling you didn’t get all of the instructions.
you’ll end up in an apartment that’s aggressively okay, where beetles crawl out of the wall like they were there first and you’re just visiting.
you’ll notice that the carpet smells faintly like someone repeatedly microwaved fish and decided that’s right for the rest of history.
you’ll think about that longer than necessary.
mostly you’ll be checking your pockets for your wallet.
left pocket.
right pocket.
jacket pocket.
sometimes you’ll wonder if you should see a doctor.
now?
maybe now?
eventually the feeling goes away or it kills you.
hair stops growing or starts growing in places that feel like clerical errors.
you think about planting a garden, but not here.
down here a dog lifts its leg, and a neighbor waves like none of it is happening.
even a little while turns out to be a lot compared to nothing.
you get a taste of success once.
after that you start wondering how to steal more of it.
failure sticks around longer.
failure sits beside you like a drunk friend who won’t leave after a party.
one night you’ll call up success, “what are you doing tomorrow?”
failure will answer the call, you’ll think it’s a conspiracy, for a while.
sooner or later somebody asks something from you
or you ask something from them.
now you’ve got trust.
which is just a slower way of making enemies.
people will say, “live in the present.”
good luck with that.
good luck with taxes.
taxes live in the past.
good luck writing the heartbreaking masterpiece that proves you were here.
and good luck finding that book you swear you just saw.
if the universe is working right- it will fall off the shelf in about fifteen seconds.
or not.
i’m sure there’s some way to correct the universe.
i can’t help you with that.
but i can tell you which place in the city has the best Thai food.
Mar 13
Mar 13, 2026 at 6:57 PM UTC
The body is a borrowed shoreline,
salt-lipped and listening,
never certain which tide will claim it.
Bone is a cathedral of quiet lightning.
Veins hum their red psalms
beneath a ceiling of tender skin.
The heart, stubborn metronome,
conducts its invisible orchestra
with trembling wrists.
Outside, the sky rehearses its tempers.
Clouds bruise without warning.
Wind presses its cold palms
against the windows of our ribs.
I have seen mornings bloom gold as marigolds
and by afternoon curdle into iron.
I have felt my pulse flutter like a startled sparrow
at the slightest rumor of thunder.
We walk through orchards of uncertainty,
each breath a porcelain cup
balanced on the lip of gravity.
The earth turns without consulting us.
The seasons molt in secret.
Inside, cells divide like whispered conspiracies.
A single spark can unspool
the silk tapestry of equilibrium.
A single kindness can stitch it back
with luminous thread.
Both the body and the world
are tempest and tenderness intertwined.
They are avalanches disguised as lullabies,
gardens seeded with meteorite dust.
Still, we wake.
Still, we anchor ourselves
to the small mercies.
Warm tea steaming in porcelain dawn.
The hush of snowfall on bare branches.
The quiet covenant of breath entering,
breath leaving.
Unpredictable, yes.
But astonishing.
A fragile vessel sailing
through a mercurial cosmos,
lantern held high
against the weather.
Feb 19
Feb 19, 2026 at 1:31 AM UTC
(The warehouse hums in ordered light;
rain drums the roof beyond the night.
Fluorescents stitch the rafters tight;
the aisles run straight—a steel-boned sight.)
Strange:
The air is warm, the floor is clean,
A temple built for bright and mean.
Crates of silver, sealed in rows,
Contain the future no one knows.
I move like rumor, calm and planned,
The keypad softens to my hand.
They forge their gods from code and chrome—
I crown those idols, then take them home.
(A checkpoint blinks, the cameras pan;
a barcode winks, reveals its plan.
A breath, a shadow, keys that ring—
a guard steps out to do his thing.)
Guard:
Hands up! Right now!
Strange:
Your voice is brave—
But courage breaks against a wave.
Sleep, watchdog. Let the silence keep.
I pass like thunder after sleep.
(Footsteps fade; the mezzanine
keeps steady time, precise and clean.
A second guard rounds row twelve-B;
he startles hard at what he sees.)
Guard:
Don’t move!
Strange:
You tremble, yet you stand—
I almost wish to shake your hand.
But time is tight and art is stern;
step back, be wise, let others learn.
(A shout, a stumble, radios hiss;
the aisle holds breath it will not miss.
Then quiet folds the scene in two;
the workflow hum resumes on cue.)
Strange:
Perfection sleeps in sterile steel,
A heart that hums, a mind to feel.
They hide the crown in numbered trays;
I read the lock like prayer and phrase.
A case unlatches—future’s grin;
I pocket what the saints keep in.
They’ll call it theft; I call it art—
A pulse that chooses to depart.
(Far sirens comb the wet-black streets;
red-blue squares pulse heartbeat beats.
A side-door shakes—a heavier tread;
the aisle goes taut, the hum grows dread.)
Detective:
Templeton Strange—don’t move. Hands high.
Strange:
At last, a hunter who will try.
You wear your nerve like fitted cloth;
you smell of rain and righteous froth.
Come closer, witness what you chase:
a smile too sharp for mortal place.
Detective:
On your knees. Set down the case.
Strange:
You’d kneel a storm to make it safe.
You think a pistol cages night?
Then speak in powder. Prove you’re right.
Detective:
Last warning.
Strange:
Warnings wilt and fade;
fire is the only vow you’ve made.
(Two shots crack hard, clean, precise;
they ping off ribs like marbles’ dice.
Metal skates the polished ground;
the echoes laugh, a bright, hard sound.)
Detective:
…What are you?
Strange:
A rule untamed,
A threshold that refused its name.
Call me Strange and hold your line—
Names are the only cuffs that bind.
Detective:
You’re under arrest. Don’t test me, son.
Put down the case. This night is done.
Strange:
Done? No—drawn. The outline’s mine.
You bring a badge; I bring a sign.
Look how your hand refuses shake—
a worthy flaw I’d hate to break.
(Forklifts sleep, their chargers glow;
the fans keep breathing row by row.
The loading bay looms straight ahead;
a stripe of night like ink is spread.)
Detective:
You murdered guards.
Strange:
They barred the way.
I cut the fuse that fed your day.
Your order worships glass and speed—
I serve the shadow under need.
I let you live because you burn;
the sharper edge is what I yearn.
Detective:
Put. It. Down.
Strange:
Art travels, friend.
I’ll keep this piece until the end.
Chase if you must; we both know how—
Your oath is teeth; I like it now.
(He walks the aisle in measured grace;
the bay-door squares the storm’s dark face.
He does not rush, he does not hide;
he meets the rain with surgeon stride.)
Detective (into radio):
Shots fired—suspect heading south,
Hit center mass, still running his mouth.
Blue skin gleamed, his eyes burned bright,
He smiled through gunfire, then fled into the night.
He’s no machine, but he won’t go down—
Like he wears the storm as a kind of crown.
He moved like thought—too quick to trace,
I swear the rain remembered his face.
(The radio spits, the thunder replies;
he lowers it slow, heat in his eyes.
The warehouse stands in fluorescent hush;
the storm outside keeps steady rush.)
Detective (softly):
What are you, Strange? What truth did I miss?
(A voice drifts sweet as a venomous kiss;
no body seen—just echo and hiss.)
Strange:
I’m what you see when mirrors weep,
When conscience stirs but will not sleep.
You hunt the crime; I am the cause—
The flaw that breathes beneath your laws.
(The storm swells thick, the lenses gleam;
each pane repeats a swallowed scream.
He turns—no figure claims the floor,
just rippled eyes in every door.)
Strange (fading):
Remember me in every pane,
In siren glass, in tempered rain.
The night is mine—but so are you;
Each fear you chase will bleed me through.
(The thunder fades to furnace tune;
the rafters hold a pallid moon.
He stares—and sees, in polished blue,
two green-lit eyes stare staring through.)
Detective (whisper):
…Reflections in ruin.
(The hum resumes, exact, austere;
outside, the storm keeps drawing near.
The hunter breathes. The quarry’s gone.
The aisle remembers what was done.)
Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 2:45 PM UTC
there’s an uncanny thickness
to this dawn’s mist
i observe it settle
much like some doves
or a crow perching
on the dead bodies
dozens around me
hundreds surrounding this valley
my boots are caked in
red mud that reminds me of
the grand canyon
war is a lonely thing
my sword is the only reason
i’m alive
amongst bombardment
and entropy
i rage
most of the time not knowing why fully
i tend to cry when i fight
i find my craft to be a
deeply emotional and spiritual process
i don’t want to fight most of the time
i wish i was defeated
something to be said about
the stubbornness of my soul
a rebellion of enough cells in my body forms
they work in conjunction
not for a greater good
like i tell myself often
it’s only because i can do it
and because i feel i need to do it
how could i not perform the rituals
of my existence’s justifications?
this kind of war
this kind of violence
this kind of bloodshed
is essential for the growth
of the land
in order for there to be birth
there must be death
i cannot go on without war
when i was a child i grew weary
of conflict and loud sounds
i grew vigilant of being too known
or too seen
the universe says
“no more absolutes and
no more absolute silence”
i’ve waged so much battle against the reflection in this river
i’ve slashed and killed my way towards victory and
out of death
out of peril and anguish
through peril and anguish
most distract themselves from the reality
of improvement and ambition
they sink into complacency and comforts
this world begs one to give in to how
small and insignificant
every bead of sweat on my brow is
i rage
and this i must
it is something
ancestral
i’d rather die than sink
blessed enough to be born
with the capacity of a healer
cursed enough to have to force myself
into becoming a cold machine
now that i’m learning to be this man
my ultimate mission is to teeter
both sides
i don’t want to wage war
i don’t want to swing my sword
i don’t want to cut bodies in half
i don’t want to defend others or myself
i don’t want to live and go on
i don’t want to suffer
but it is the very essence of what gives me life
i will have to armor and man up
i will have to think about my loved ones
and moms’ disappointments
but confusingly
her care also
i’ll think about my lovers outrage at my inadequacies
and her ego as it defends and perpetuates hers
as well as her nurture and warmth
i will have to envision the hells others before me
have come across
the rivers of red im stepping over
have also been tainted by men
i will leave my mark
i refuse to kneel
without the attempt
at getting back up
swiftly following it
the mist is red as blood sprays the earth
the catapults and castle walls
turn into debris
in the midst of my sword swinging
i am branded by this reality
but i will never give up
these demons
my enemies
my ego
my past
my pain
my battered face
my lonely soul
i promise the kid that still
lives in my heart
that cries when he fights
that i’d never give up
“godspeed” he said
“and thank you”
i’ll remain silent
with the exception of my battle cries
and the dialect
of my
blade
- melancholicreator
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 7:51 PM UTC
An angry transformation waiting as I sleep
No more hesitation
Elation bursting at the seams
Crashing explosion
Raring to open
An industry of self change by flame and devotion
I cope with the subtleties of losing my mind
with a bottle full of shallow thoughts I've slowly left behind
An organism evolving through blistering heat
Charred skin falls away and my change is complete
Feb 5
Feb 5, 2026 at 1:37 PM UTC
Imagine
you’re a being in 4D.
You hold the universe
like a cup of tea:
warm, delicate,
unfolding slowly in your palm.
You watched its birth,
the trembling stretch of space—
a moment for you,
an eternity for us.
Now picture this:
two black holes,
swollen with mass,
drifting toward one another
at your quiet command.
They collide.
And in that union,
you witness the impossible:
a mushroom cloud,
blooming in the fabric of reality—
brief,
brilliant,
and gone.
A ripple,
a hush.
Like breath on a mirror.
Nothing remains but the memory
of how it unfurled
and dissolved
into emptiness.
Then you recall
our universe
is still expanding.
Like that cloud.
Like that moment.
A slow, exquisite stretch
toward silence.
And one day
we too
will thin into nothing.
Not with a bang.
Not with a cry.
But with a whisper
so vast
no one will be left to hear it.
Jan 28
Jan 28, 2026 at 1:51 PM UTC
Some friendships fade but leave a heavy mark,
A tug that lingers longer than it should;
And when the mind keeps turning in the dark,
We learn not every bond was ever good.
There’s a habit in holding on too tight,
Letting memories outstay what they were
But time reveals, in gentler morning light,
How little truth we ever saw in them.
People chase echoes hoping they’ll feel whole
Trying to revive a warmth long gone
But soon they see the cost of playing roles
For stories that were never meant to last
So when the past grows quiet on its own
It’s simply life making a needed room
And letting go becomes a common tone
A small relief after a long, slow gloom.
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 8:57 PM UTC
Photosynthetic void—walls bereft of chroma,
No photon cascade, no serotonin spectra.
A chamber of entropy,
Where mitosis mourns in monochrome.
Chrono-displacement:
We arrived at 8:20,
But spacetime dilated—
A tachyon chase beneath scalpel orbit.
Dual patient states—pre-op/post-op—
Entangled in Schrödinger’s queue,
Their vitals suspended
In probabilistic purgatory.
The medic? A quantum migrant.
From outpost to outpost,
Clinic to cloud,
A baryon of ambition, unbound by Hippocratic gravity.
Washroom:
A microbial biome of neglect.
Fee:
A kilojoule transaction for placebo empathy.
This isn’t care.
It’s thermodynamic collapse
In a coat of sterilized prestige.
He holds the scalpel,
Yet forgets:
The heart is not a ledger.
And time is not his to hoard.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 10:06 AM UTC
Drop grains onto the mandala, like bricks on castle walls.
Form your words into a poem, turn that poem into song.
But Entropy remains the tune who's sound becomes each now.
Like a pendulum wields springs, losing energy each swing.
Like Sparta wielded kings, directional and proud.
We face the winds of space and time and entropy unbowed.
Ordo ab chao, Grana Tao.
Ordo ab chao, Order and Rhyme.
Order and Rhyme.
Order and Rhyme.
Order and Rhyme per unit time.
Conscious witness, entropic shrine.
The un-veiled eye can see the next line.
Mass and energy fully entwined.
Attention that goes to where it's assigned.
Observing the winds of space and time.
We're counting the nows with Order and Rhyme.
Ordo ab chao, Grana Tao.
Ordo ab chao, Order and Rhyme.
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 11:17 AM UTC
My thoughts unravel and spin,
Falling onto whirring gears.
They catch and halt,
Friction causing fire and chaos.
The flame lights every shadow,
and it seeps into every crack.
An agonising burn,
tormenting everything it touches.
Quelled by the winds from a whisper,
Embers flutter through a chasm of thought.
Chaos kisses uncertainty —
and it roars into destruction once again.
This fire is the essence of existence.
Chaos enraptured by uncertainty.
Shadows twirl in the solemn dance of beasts.
The warmth of passion,
The sear of pain,
The fuel that torments all that is beautiful.
Entropy entangled in an immortal bond.
I walk the path,
set in a blazing inferno,
Burdened by the weight of stardust,
With the toll of seeing too much.
Trapped in an infinite expanse.
Freedom entombed in death.
Madness consumes.
I am a witness to it all.
Madness consumes.
I am the bearer of it all.
Madness consumed —
I am the embodiment of it all.
Jun 26, 2025
Jun 26, 2025 at 12:34 AM UTC
Pixels bloom and softly fade,
Digital ghosts in sunlight played.
A fleeting touch, a whispered plea,
Lost in the vast immensity.
We build our worlds of light and code,
But even data finds its road
To entropy, to silent rest—
Another echo, gently blessed.
Jun 11, 2025
Jun 11, 2025 at 10:42 PM UTC
I stepped out — to buy some bread.
The rain, a silver needle, embroidering the diaphanous gauze of the atmosphere.
Thoughts, like feral hounds, prowled and dragged me
astray, to the wrong street.
And there —
the abyss.
No grocery here.
Only the void, yawning wide, insatiable, ravenous,
a Grand Canyon, misplaced in the geometric monotony
of concrete blocks — a scar on the skin of the ordinary.
Who sanctioned this?
Who gouged this chasm into the fabric of the mundane,
this rupture in the tapestry of the everyday?
We inhabit a world where everything
appears to matter —
blueprints, ideals, the ceaseless scramble for triumph,
the Sisyphean climb toward some illusory summit.
But time, that insidious thief, that silent eroder,
dissolves it all into the silt of oblivion.
What endures?
Laughter.
Laughter — not mirth, but a gasp,
a surrender to the absurd, a white flag waved
at the futility of it all.
It is the sound of a man
teetering on the precipice,
howling into the void
and hearing only his own echo reverberate,
a hollow chorus of his own insignificance.
But nothing matters only
when you are solitary,
when the world contracts to the size of your skull.
No wife, no child, no anniversaries to commemorate.
No one to observe, to decipher, to adore.
Laughter then is not liberation —
it is the wail of the forsaken,
the cry of a soul unmoored, adrift in the vast, indifferent sea.
Imagine the edge.
The abyss below, fathomless, voracious,
its maw gaping, hungry for meaning.
You can shriek, sob, summon aid —
but no one answers.
And so you laugh.
Not because it is droll,
but because it is the sole retort left to you,
the last weapon in your arsenal against the void.
If we cannot alter anything —
if the gears of fate grind on, indifferent to our pleas —
why even endeavor?
Insignificance is not a curse.
It is a peculiar emancipation,
a shedding of the weight of expectation.
Your blunders, your trepidations, your aspirations—
they are sandcastles, ephemeral and frail,
washed away by the tide of eternity.
Yet there is splendor in the act of construction,
in the fleeting defiance of entropy.
Even stone crumbles.
Even the most impregnable bastions succumb to time’s relentless siege.
Laughter cannot nourish the famished,
cannot solace the lovelorn.
It is a spark, evanescent,
a brief luminescence in the abyssal dark,
a fleeting exertion to convince yourself
that anguish and torment are illusory,
that the weight of existence is but a shadow on the wall.
And it is, perversely, amusing.
Mar 18, 2025
Mar 18, 2025 at 9:04 PM UTC
Without the will, power is meaningless. Without power, will is ineffective.
The artist's true power is deception. Mystery is her medium, myth is her message.
Without the willpower to do something, is it possible to will oneself to obtain it?
The artist only panders to nostalgia. The profit speaks about current events. The historian lays-out a plan for the future.
Could will be the emerged pattern of chemical and electrical forces, as evolved via the force of entropy?
Could we be driven to seek will? Can we will new drives?
Feb 26, 2025
Feb 26, 2025 at 9:59 PM UTC
Heartbreak is emotional entropy,
an inevitable unraveling, where love's warmth fades into the void, leaving only the cold, scattered remnants of what once was whole.
And as time stretches,
the heart begins to wane
it’s capacity to give, to hold,
to burn with the same intensity
growing dimmer and dimmer with each heartbreak.
For like energy lost to heat,
the heart's strength dissipates,
Unable to return to its original state.
Feb 23, 2025
Feb 23, 2025 at 4:09 PM UTC
The organized systems of the past,
become the random numbers of the future.
Jul 31, 2024
Jul 31, 2024 at 3:17 AM UTC
The gray dark morning
Of an autumn blossom
Drab yet alive, forcing life
The world wants to slow
And my heart wants to sleep
Entropy moves, however enticing death may seem
Backed to a corner, we have no choice
But to awake
Nov 7, 2022
Nov 7, 2022 at 8:01 PM UTC
it is impossible to explain
forever and one second are the same
without your time just make believe
Jun 26, 2022
Jun 26, 2022 at 3:26 PM UTC
How?
If even there were
A force in this universe
Sustaining life beyond just breath
Beyond this web of neurons
Firing in predictable patterns
Prescribing every inclination and desire
A flame in which is fully forged
The consciousness that
Dreams and dares all things
Beyond our mere survival
If even there were such a force
How would it be made known?
How does a foundation work
When the fundamental building blocks
Are massless, pointlike?
As much wave as particle
Basking in the sunlight of uncertainty
Existing in duality
How, when everything else is
Nothingness
A void a million billion times more extensive
Than anything substantial
That surrounds it
A vacuum that renders
The remaining matter pointless
How could force be hollow
Yet encompass all
What does it all mean
When all of matter falls in between
This unseen field
Rippling, wriggling, rigging
Everything it fills with the seedlings of decay
Each day
Moving along the breakdown towards
Entropy
Splendid chaos,
Almost too perfect to be called such
How could we not see
The force
Still elusive, but unchanged
Striking a balance
Between fate and volatility
The neverending battle
That morphs each how into a why
The demon and the butterfly
Nov 11, 2021
Nov 11, 2021 at 5:34 PM UTC
sunsets ripple across southern skies
like skipping stones across a pond.
i'm thinking about how we all die.
what will nothing feel like?
what did it feel like before?
i catch myself guessing -
the void and cold conjurings of a
scared temporary consciousness.
loneliness beckons and repulses me
in equal measures, existential inquiries
painting me into nihilistic corners.
is this just some brief gift?
i hem and haw and waste the light,
i become the universe i fear,
endlessly eating my thoughts,
embodying entropy as i gasp for air.
Jul 20, 2021
Jul 20, 2021 at 6:17 PM UTC
I close my eyes
Find myself alone with thought
What is thought?
What is what?
What is?
In the moment of silence
We experienced everything
A second for one
A lifetime for another
Moving between hot and cold
The cold darkness of nothing
The burning embers of creation
Bubbles pop in and out of existence
The abyss sits waiting for us to come home
The cold and heat disappear as equilibrium sets in
Entropy takes over and we become one
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 12:16 AM UTC