Incoherence. Maniac writing. Nightmares. Hallucinations. The vision of a madman is one that is not convertible to words or other types of medium. The medium is not the message, but the loss of the illusory primordial. Distortion. No origin beyond the message. A noise in the nuisance. It’s like a reverse Rorschach, where instead of projecting an image I see the patterns lying underneath them, zooming in or zooming out. Blips. Blobs. Waves. Spectrums. The image engulfs itself in a loop. Disanthropomorphizised. The aura blurs what it means to surround like a mist. Dissolves matter; so shallow it collapses, burnt into ashes vanished into the atmosphere. Fire. Zeus. Lighting. Boom. Dissipates. This is what it is. Nothing. I lack the poetic skill to address the awe of the magnificent horror. It is not to be told. I’m uncreating. Burn after reading. A little lobotomy. A sip of tea in the abyss. I’m involucrated back to the womb where I’ll be unborn in the other side of this realm. Back from the fetal stage, to unbryonic, to germinal, locked within a nutshells, neutralized by protons and neutrons. There’s a nuclear revolution happening and my body has no underlying mind to manifest it before it collapses into the singularity. Maybe the Big Bang is what happens inside a black hole and why so many things came out of a single grain of dust. Maybe every blackhole is a massive star collapsing to create its own parallel universe with its own set of rules. Maybe this is what is on the other side of the wormhole. Another possibility. Maybe the compression is the expansion where new elements are to be created. Rearranged. New unexpected bonds or lack of. There where you can split an atom with a kitchen knife. Like cutting butter. Split the hydrogen. Mayday mayday. The truth of the state of liminality between nothing and the void that behold us. What is gone and what will never come. The image projected by my retina. The dancing hologram. I hold on to you on bike we hired until tomorrow and we are past the point of no return. beyond the event horizon. Here time stretches and time freezes in an eternal loop, suddenly there’s infinity in a mile I run but it’s a never-ending marathon. It turns out it’s a hamster wheel that twists and turns on itself, circular and infinite ouroboros disguised as a Moebius strip, the snake bites its tail, eats itself as its stomach stretches to make room for it to swallow itself. Cannibalism. The birth of cycles. The circle of life. The circus of life is pure spectacle. Illusion. earth’s rotation. I’d stop the motion but I’m stupefied. I’d do the Macarena if the situation demands. Even tiktok dances. Chaos has no choreography. I’m seasick to swing around this axis, but I’m pole dancing. Never static. Never anywhere. Am I the nucleus or the electrum? Enjoy the ride, don’t fight it. This is the tip for any trip you decide to embark on, this ship has no destination. You can’t cheat yourself that you can’t do without cheating. The curse of Prometheus. The life of Golum. Dr Frankenstein. Faust as baby in Mother Mary’s arms or dragged to the depths of hell. No matter the mythic endgame. The conspiracy is after all true. If you want it to be. Dyslexia is a way of self-defense. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter.
