prayer wheel
The residue of creation still sparkles in the blood, from the measures of passion to the calling of these bones, we are physics and chemistry. We stand upon the low hills, thinking that we can find heaven. We stare into the darkness, pretending we know our hearts. It is hard to know what heat to follow, so close to this temporary heart. Our mistake to see the magic in words originating in the names or things, and not our quizzical biology. We grind down ghosts just touching and seeing. The resin of living places divinity everywhere we happen to look.
The connections are everywhere, contact wisdom graces us at random, caught in a closed system that is complex past fathoming. Heritable inferences cast from the insight that other minds are always at work, made into the mistake that all thinking is in our thoughts. That the substance of life is something that has bound us to think so deeply of death, that our personal extinction is inevitable has reshaped our notions of the cosmos, that we need so very much to complete these actions of love that can not be completed in any scale even vaguely human has forced us to make fables out of everything within reach-- these are the sticking points, the truss that binds us to the need to be so very special. It is the weight of this need that makes us fail first ourselves, then all others before and beyond.
There is no objectivity, just more remote flavors of subjection. Every tentative relation branches out in every direction through space and time and confluence. Contingency and calamity and probability and creativity all have spawned this particular crowd of us, all alive and striving at this very moment. In these biological imperatives and the often contradictory pull of powerful memes we are rooted and we travel, mostly against the benefit of all the individuals that are this magnitudinous idea "us." So we gather in our tribes and nations, we wrap ourselves in gods and flags and strive to gain the power over all other myths and lies through the justice of our victories. Sentient and alight with so many blessings and such great habits of wisdom and knowledge, we will burn down all that we are or could be to prove that our will was resolute. Caught in a moment when the empirical and the sublime must strive to save us, we will replicate all the strongest mistakes of our natures and cultures. We will give the most weight to our most ephemeral qualities, and pray so hard to the unseen improbabilities that faith demands. We will spin the wheel without ever looking first to find a course. Persuaded by our limitations we will at last find the prophesied end of the world.
The residue of creation still sparkles in the blood, from the measures of passion to the calling of these bones, we are physics and chemistry. We stand upon the low hills, thinking that we can find heaven. We stare into the darkness, pretending we know our hearts. It is hard to know what heat to follow, so close to this temporary heart. Our mistake to see the magic in words originating in the names or things, and not our quizzical biology. We grind down ghosts just touching and seeing. The resin of living places divinity everywhere we happen to look.
The connections are everywhere, contact wisdom graces us at random, caught in a closed system that is complex past fathoming. Heritable inferences cast from the insight that other minds are always at work, made into the mistake that all thinking is in our thoughts. That the substance of life is something that has bound us to think so deeply of death, that our personal extinction is inevitable has reshaped our notions of the cosmos, that we need so very much to complete these actions of love that can not be completed in any scale even vaguely human has forced us to make fables out of everything within reach-- these are the sticking points, the truss that binds us to the need to be so very special. It is the weight of this need that makes us fail first ourselves, then all others before and beyond.
There is no objectivity, just more remote flavors of subjection. Every tentative relation branches out in every direction through space and time and confluence. Contingency and calamity and probability and creativity all have spawned this particular crowd of us, all alive and striving at this very moment. In these biological imperatives and the often contradictory pull of powerful memes we are rooted and we travel, mostly against the benefit of all the individuals that are this magnitudinous idea "us." So we gather in our tribes and nations, we wrap ourselves in gods and flags and strive to gain the power over all other myths and lies through the justice of our victories. Sentient and alight with so many blessings and such great habits of wisdom and knowledge, we will burn down all that we are or could be to prove that our will was resolute. Caught in a moment when the empirical and the sublime must strive to save us, we will replicate all the strongest mistakes of our natures and cultures. We will give the most weight to our most ephemeral qualities, and pray so hard to the unseen improbabilities that faith demands. We will spin the wheel without ever looking first to find a course. Persuaded by our limitations we will at last find the prophesied end of the world.
