Crossing the Line (pt. 2)

It was the thought experiments, which finally drove him away from the passion for understanding the cosmos.  On the tourniquet edge of his mind, he witnessed the destruction of his consciousness from inside its grand structure.  All the dreaming, all the flashes of insight that once caused his mind to feel heavy as he rose out of bed each night to peer across the night sky, had finally just dropped through the psychological fabric of space and time.  Each spark of genius set ablaze a wildfire in the forest of his soul, until the land was barren and his soul charred.

These images course the man now every minute, wreaking psychological decimation in their fourth dimensional paths.  His body and the great whirring black hole in his mind’s theater are all that’s left of this once-genius.  Oh, and of course the tingling in his scalp, as the sod of flesh and nerves on his cranium wars with itself for the unconscious territory below.

His hair is quite long now. “But, thinning badly,” he thinks to himself, as he scratches his head in an always failing attempt to calm the neural storm he perceives from above.  Upon the blue spiraled box, his curiously brownish blue, or are they blueish brown, eyes transfix.  He knows there is something special about this item. “And it’s not just because of how it looks, either.”

He whirls around.  The sounds of London clang against his mind, causing yet another anguish: aural discordance. These strange eyes of his have a curious quality, or perhaps its his mind, that allow him to zoom in on things as he does.  This strange ability was once a great tool for viewing beyond the threshold of the vacuum, but back then, it worked when he intently wanted to see something.  Yes, that is how he used to be, after honing the accidental skill and before losing all to the vortex.  At this point, however, it’s a power unto itself and he is its master not, as if he’s forgotten how to ride this bike of his childhood.

The box, he feels, isn’t unlike the Palantir he read about in Tolkien. “It stares back at me,” he whispers with his face turned away from the fingers which mount it in his hands in a way not dissimilar to the fingers which hold a rare stone in a precious metal ring.  He returns his eyes to the object of mental machinations. They grasp it and return to piecing it apart, as if they are looking through a microscope.

“It’s flawless.”

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Crossing the Line (pt. 1)

The man takes the box out of his ragged coat pocket and sits it on the concrete support for the road just inches above his head.

He’s an older man, homeless and forgotten.  He knows high Psychics and a good bit of classical piano, but now…. now.. He’s this, “whatever this is,” he whispers through his Aqualung beard.

The box is just about the size of a jewelry box, but far heavier.  It’s a curiously shimmering Atlantic blue hue and there is a line wrapped all around it, almost as if someone traced a continuous spiraling pattern around its cubic surface in a way that’s suggestive of curves, where none are truly present.  “But, only if I look at it from this angle…” he remarks, enpuzzled, as his speech trails off into thought.

The long line, which orbits the box at a sly angle is an etched canyon on the blue of this foreign object.  The man picks it up again and marvels at its brilliance in the shaded light of his modern life. He sits down with his back to the mass of the pylon, turning the blueness over and over in this fingers.

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Crossing the Line (prologue)

It’s likely that the bits I’m flipping by typing this will outlive me.  Somewhere, in however many years, let’s say thirty, I might be sleeping in a box for the next eon.  After my passing, these words may reside in some scattered quantum entanglement, just as they may reside in my consciousness in this moment.  At that time, as it is today, I might still wade through the flooded caverns of my theoretical entropy, even after I’m long “gone” from this Latter Earth.

I am saddened that, given these thirty years to live in my thought experiment and the alleged speed limit of light, my own personal theoretical entropy allows for only an infinitesimal exploration of our cosmic anthill: Our Universe.  I am perhaps even more saddened, in present context, that there are, I believe, many other anthills and molehills in this landscape of existence which also will be left out of my three dimensional travel radius, my sphere of possible entropy.  With the Zeno’s Paradox of infinitely vast proportion stretching out into an infinity of what could be, is, or has ever been, I weep for realizing my humanity, after being promised by our culture my any whim delivered with corporatized democracy and Everyday Low Prices.  I tear also for science, as its prismous transparent structure, a mighty creation of sandy dust made stronger and clearer to reach the “heights” above, is truly set to crash down in shards; for logic may have no place across the thresholds of tomorrow.

Perhaps tomorrow, I will be asked to pilot a near light speed mission of great conscious exploration by some strange group of engineers, de la deus ex machina, to the fringes of my own personal travel potential.  What then, would I see?  I would be far from Earth, perhaps.  I might arc across the galaxy or who knows, maybe die in the impending vacuüm all around us.

I say that one of the creeping death black holes might swallow me across its event horizon. Indeed, this could happen here, where I am now: laying in my bed with my hoodie hood up.  Hmmm… If my mission is to explore this waking realm and find a tomb for myself, today, I’d head for a Cygnus X-1 like Rush, where I might find the answer to everything or nothing at all.

Farewell,

Arnie

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Take a Page, Leave a Page

I started this blog as a sketch pad to learn more about myself, but my initial attempt failed. So, in taking a page from all of the revisionist history flying around these days, I decided tear out the written pages of this notebook and pitch them in the garbage.

Rest in peace, past scribbles.

-joshua

P.S. “ask not why”

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