I must first clarify a point, in reference to my being assaulted by my night tormentors (the bills, the laundry list of quick-fixes, the saviors and miracles, etc...) I made a mistake in my previous post. It is not exactly what it seems.
First the stories. Well, they do go around my concrete-mixer mind like wild horses. No amount of taming suffices. A horse in a concrete mixer, whether wild or tamed, is still nothing more than a horse galloping inside a concrete mixer. AKA a story. (If you don't know what I mean, think of a hamster wheel). Controlling them, via awareness, as you drop down the maelstroms of emptiness at the centre of the black torus, and they stay behind, you are finding yourself in the middle of the ocean, with nothing familiar to cling to. No rafter. Not even a lousy misplaced piece of flotsam. If you do find drift wood coming your way, you know you're lying to yourself. But if you don't, then you've entered a different kind of life. . . But I'm getting carried away here, ahead of myself. Put it on the count of gravity or even entropy. See I can't even take responsibility for what I am saying. In truth, it's all false modesty. Just to show all my hard work, under the guise of deprecation.
For the clarity's sake, let's backtrack a little. And talk about The Ghost in the Machine. If I remember well, the whole mess was started by a French man, going on by the name of D. D took it upon himself to prove the existence of God in the most simplistic way. He thought, (right there he should have known better) that he could think about the existence of God, then it was a manifestation of God's will, and the proof that he existed. This tiny little indulgence of language created a massive and unwelcome duality. We still have not recovered from it. This endless wrestling game gave birth to the Ghost. The Ghost was this purely foggy worker that was supposed to link body and mind, since they were now disconnected . . . But the Ghost, like all good ghosts, and trust me, just watch all the shows coming out on TV as well as all the horror films these days, did what it did best. It escaped.
It actually now lives in the machine. Blame D for releasing him in the first place. D's Ghost equates Shelley's Frankestein, with the different that it is so much more refined and sophisticated than Shelley's stitched chunks-of-meat creature. You can't see D's Ghost. You can't even know it exists. But it is here. Now. This very moment. In the machine. And at the wheel, driving silently our abundant world blessed in technology.
Stay tuned for part#2
First the stories. Well, they do go around my concrete-mixer mind like wild horses. No amount of taming suffices. A horse in a concrete mixer, whether wild or tamed, is still nothing more than a horse galloping inside a concrete mixer. AKA a story. (If you don't know what I mean, think of a hamster wheel). Controlling them, via awareness, as you drop down the maelstroms of emptiness at the centre of the black torus, and they stay behind, you are finding yourself in the middle of the ocean, with nothing familiar to cling to. No rafter. Not even a lousy misplaced piece of flotsam. If you do find drift wood coming your way, you know you're lying to yourself. But if you don't, then you've entered a different kind of life. . . But I'm getting carried away here, ahead of myself. Put it on the count of gravity or even entropy. See I can't even take responsibility for what I am saying. In truth, it's all false modesty. Just to show all my hard work, under the guise of deprecation.
For the clarity's sake, let's backtrack a little. And talk about The Ghost in the Machine. If I remember well, the whole mess was started by a French man, going on by the name of D. D took it upon himself to prove the existence of God in the most simplistic way. He thought, (right there he should have known better) that he could think about the existence of God, then it was a manifestation of God's will, and the proof that he existed. This tiny little indulgence of language created a massive and unwelcome duality. We still have not recovered from it. This endless wrestling game gave birth to the Ghost. The Ghost was this purely foggy worker that was supposed to link body and mind, since they were now disconnected . . . But the Ghost, like all good ghosts, and trust me, just watch all the shows coming out on TV as well as all the horror films these days, did what it did best. It escaped.
It actually now lives in the machine. Blame D for releasing him in the first place. D's Ghost equates Shelley's Frankestein, with the different that it is so much more refined and sophisticated than Shelley's stitched chunks-of-meat creature. You can't see D's Ghost. You can't even know it exists. But it is here. Now. This very moment. In the machine. And at the wheel, driving silently our abundant world blessed in technology.
Stay tuned for part#2
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