[For it is time to figure out what we believe.
As it happens when I am awake at length, in these primal, delusive states, beyond the point of being tired. This is what crosses my mind.
I wander away even from the need to rest my head. I wander away to the point beyond ever having needed sleep to begin with and it seems inscrutable to me.
And of course I would need to sleep, eventually. But for now I am infinite, I think, in these extended, circular moments; for now I am more than longitude, I am latitude, I am upwards, more grace than human grace, better.
And how we lie to ourselves about the necessity of sleep is an exact replica of the human psychosis. For we live unrested, until we are defeated: by the natural processes of fatigue, we unwittingly make our way through our infinities, and die as human.
By the final unbearable wound. We get damaged. We are chipped away by doubts and ridicule.
Then we fade out. For all the times when a person had retaliated just in time to curb death, that person in turn would lose days to stress or languor.
So awhile goes by and the same things matter. There are platitudes we know are disguises, masks; we are enlightened; there is the subtle encroaching feeling that one is not only alone but as loyal to fate as puppets to the master. We reflect our fate by simply being. Every day.
Nobody can control being alive. It is our fate. And it is my personal scope of beauty to imagine all us as being upon this planet for a time, this planet only as well for a time, and forever afterwards a dauntless blankness, an eternal, breathless tomb: sans memory, sans any subject of reflection because, of course, the mirror stares out into sightless darkness.
I am the mirror in the closet. Or I like to think we all are mere reflection which has been put away. Or perhaps machines that bounce back and forth and thrive especially when bouncing along a current of many discernible things and objects, objects that by their external nature seem to prove the internal nature of the mirror when in fact we are really speaking of a mirror, which can only reflect as much poise as the gazer permits to see in himself.
What is lost in this is not necessary a subject to reflect on but the energy to do it. One in darkness reaches for darkness and then reaches no more. We live and know and map out the faculties of this being-alive, but without the schematics; rather, by the virtues of others’ discernibility, which makes sense as there would not be possible faculties without a place for those faculties.
And if being-alive itself is the place than one might as well discount the rest of those on this unconscious, watery marble, itself nearly impudent in my eyes, a thing sickened more by more care towards its opinion-less opinion.
So I think of this without sleep. So I grow hemmed in.
What is true void, indifference, or what I might call the pathos of the neutral. It is grass. It is the echoing of slipped leaves, many, at once, sounding a reservoir yet each in itself, nay but most times, a commercial habit of thinking, or a thought-gratis, or thoughts misrepresented that one might infuse upon reading.
And yes they would carry it around with them, spreading the lie thought to be truth. but anyway, this is one hell of a massive blind, blue, and rocky platform: the which will always have its perspectives by refusing it to begin with.
And upon entrance already to that final dying-time of all us. No apocalypse. No rupture of the moon. Who do I speak of, or for ??
I speak of course of what amounts to a future of people whom drones now would find liable to see as dispassionate.
At the moment people may think, it is allowed; but when we do we are sleepless until we either untie the knot so to speak or succumb to the divisive will of the body, meanwhile thinking ourselves outside the realm of others, beyond, better.
But the most dangerous moment is that which advertises certainty like an oasis reached by those without water, burnt by sun and wind, led desperately through the desperate miles of sand and whorled, dry tree.
The retaliation is ceased and so is the life, simply in hankering for water. A dying body is no longer a mind. It will happen and this maybe is due not only to death itself but a general analytical blindness, much like what any and all philosophers mention somewhere, that humanity is led astray by indifference, ignorance, lack of perspective, et al.]