A Treatise

The first tendrils of a treatise on being.

• Existence is a process of folding in on oneself. That is the light. The heavy is the magnetism of particles drawn into a steel ball that radiates all energy.
• The experience of I is a continuation of memories, this moment, and the next, drawn from a foundation of the last moment and the moment before. If you duplicated I, I would be I and I, ever diverging from the same thread of memories and self. I and self is memories and an experience of right now. Lost memories, and I begins again. New memories, and I begins anew.
• The expanse of possible actions is more vast than imaginable. We walk the railroad tracks of what has been laid before us, but there is life at the furthest outreaches of the imagination (a dewdrop forms at the edge of existence, and no one is there to experience it – no one but the phantom of you, eyes closed, pushing yourself to where the silver thread linking your existence to this moment becomes hazy).
• One cannot be ahistorical. All words must be grounded in the zeitgeist of every single conscious experience dancing right in this moment. Ahistorical is to be devoid of the life force animating every particle; all things are a spider-thin web. Touch me here and I ripple on the other side of the earth.
• The solidity is in the sacrifice. In the tear of losing a moment, a possible world, a possible self, the dust settles on the terrain of this self. This self – rugged, inhospitable – turns its shoulder to the wind to shelter its loved ones. This self can withstand tidal waves. The power is in the sacrifice.
• Pinpricks in a vase – we are all expressions of the same energy. At once the same, and all parts of a whole. Meeting another is like meeting yourself (a direction of energy not yet encountered). Loneliness is unfathomable in the vase, where my existence is given light from the same source as your existence. Unkindness is unfathomable when we are but shapes through which the light filters.
• I echo against the walls; I think, and particles draw to me. I move my hand and I create a reality that is an imprint of my mind. I close my eyes, concentrate, and the road bends underneath my foot. I build each stepping stone I step to. I color the walls I live in. My essence moulds the shape of reality around me, and the shape of reality moulds my essence. I am an infinite loop, modulated only by intention.
• Thoughts bend the fabric of the universe. Ideas are physically present. One darting thought falls like a droplet on spacetime; one thousand years from now, the world is on an entirely different trajectory.
• The bounds of my consciousness and yours are pulses that radiate as waves. Here, the edge of a wave, here the point where waves overlap. Here the point where waves merge into each other and one cannot tell one vibration from the other.
• My quarks, too, feel I-ness. Experience, with a quiet dullness pulses (here, here, there) of light. Movement. Warmth. Drawn, repulsed, dissipating, existing suddenly. I am an emergence of pulsing experience.