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to the pulse that will find me here,
to the pulse that will find me here—
oh horizon, you’re a grave
in your distance i will brave
to the heart that’s still beating
to the heart that won’t fade away

to the pulse that will find me here,
to the pulse that will find me here,
oh horizon, you’re a grave
in the distance i stand brave

devotion is the gospel,
is the promise,
is our home

my mind alone
cannot devise
the difference between model
and metaphor

neither poetry or machinery
we are not the either/or

the inescapable art, the unavoidable science, the relentless amen.

attachment by any other name is more ignoble and sacred and the bitter sweet doom

maybe—like pollen scattered by the know no thing wind, i am meant to dissolve meaning

“attachment” by any other name is more ignoble and sacred and the bitter sweet doom

The human dilemna is substituting parts for wholes—or, atleast, mine—meddling holiness with loving soliquies concerning the human potential. My human potential.

As to where to assign the antecedent, the receiptiant of love, is it wrong to be content with ‘whatever that is beautiful before me?’

If not, how do I convince them of my validity? My authenticity? This requires a sort of sacrifice that I am oblivious. My feelings, then, are unacquainted with the earth—loftily resistening a force of denial, rather than being sculpted by it. My intuitons grafting false contracts to still born visions and I mediate dissapointments and disillusionments. How can I speak for the real life?

I’d like to start with an etymology of contradiction—because I think bigotry is a core element to the human experience. When I was younger, I was very offended by bigotry, but I decided to exchange overbearing self-righteousness for a sense of humor as a coping mechanism. I like it a lot better—it has allowed me to become amused by inconsistencies.

contradiction late 14c., from O.Fr. contradiction or directly from L. contradictionem (nom. contradictio) “a reply, objection, counterargument,” noun of action from pp. stem of contradicere, in classical L. contra dicere “to speak against,” from contra “against” (see contra) + dicere “to speak” (see diction).

But I will not lie, I am still subjected to psychosomatic pains of the neck.

I do not think there is a way to be a human with dignity if you do not attempt to empathize with what displeases you. Empathy is an insane learning device—empathy, to its fullest extent, is not a perception, it is the active empirical distance between a ‘you’ and an ‘I,’ allowing us to form shared sacreds, collective ambitions, and more vivid ways of transmuting experience from one self to another.

To empathize with contradiction is to realize both the symbolic and fatalistic aspects of the human condition. On one hand, we can create names for feelings that we relate to the outside world. On the other hand, we can have no name for a doomsday we have no ability to symbolize and communicate.

When we get it right, we can form powerful predictive analogies to an outside world. But the boundary of what we can familiarize does not scale to every environment.  Newtonian mechanics cannot account for the quantum—we do not have the analogies that can account from one frame to the next. Our symbols do not always match our fate. But, less than predominately, we can be very right.

We can see the promise of forms not yet fated, but possible, through the constant translation of fate to symbol to possibilities. The fear, the greatest fear, is inadequacy, and it perpetuates itself with the fallacy of perfection outside of conception. The monolithic artifice of the obviousness gives us a false sense of security at the cost of repressing, even the possibility, of an emergent nature of the universe.

The weirdest idea, to me, is that the form itself is not enough—that to know a symbol nested in fate does not mean it should be just acknowledged. It can be bettered.

There is no true finality—exactitude, completeness is always a circular logic in transference. And within the sphere of logic is the self. The self is reactive, in the middle of things, and  trying to metabolize all inputs in a format that resolves the most use by using the least. And here in is where the contradiction lies—the godliness of the human condition is to be able to form any prescriptive analogy at all, the beastliness of us is that even our predictive power is unpredictable—because the more we acclimate to the world, the better we can see it, the more sooner our sense of entitlement to the throne of existence is denied.

To pursue knowledge in order to survive in fate is to sacrifice emotional satiation—we must escape the preferential treatments of introspection—which is to be resolved to die symbolically. Death is the greatest fear in fate, but the ultimate tool in symbol, because it allows us to rectify the ego to the ongoing narrative rather than a prescribed preference.

Again, I attempt to relinquish false idols. There are many ways to lose yourself. Too many ways—when my moments become a cramped space I need to escape, when I need to be reminded of my breath.

These attachments I have to the wild world hinted through the inter networkings of humans, like me, but never precisely, can leave me mistaking the tool for the treasure, or even the treasure for the tool. I am fate and symbol.

The proper configurations—the decisions to create the unit of memory and the comprising feeling that anchors—what if it were a lie? What if it was always the perfect promise? What if the only demand was my perfect attention?