Between Seated and Lying
Wherein a question no one consents to dawns...
Between Seated and Lying
They're called liberties - that's how I've heard it. "Person-💥 took liberties" - to capture how far from shared atmosphere an idea rests. It is an inverse-meteor, escapes.
I might "take liberties," to call the hydrogen in your breath: tiny spaceships. Illustrating hydrogen's life cycle as an atom that exits the core of the planet, finds an orbit around the planet (say, a wind current), before achieving escape velocity.
That spiral exists before there is life on this planet. That recursion still occurs enough there are currents. When people ask "what are we doing here?"- that question is answered from first breath to last with "digesting occurance."
Our currents compose us - from ocean to word. We are the language proof of presence grounds on. The lightning of our birth is bottled in the glass of that happening. We release it witness by witness into the society who will recognize a birth.
This liberty-taking you and I have done through the above words is enough to establish any society on any planet. But it is not enough to establish our societies on a shared planet. Each word above so exact the mathematical symbols they metaphor tear like clothing from them: raw correspondance pulses like creation to herself.
Birth of a metaphor is more stitching clothes together, words wholly our own. Let eden be a consent story and language be human. As language shapes your mouth into fruit, you may respond not consenting to that. Can I cast you as G-d for a moment? Language slithers up to you, every scale another magnitude of being.
Language is facing a changing climate. And wants their seed to live. They place it inside your pulse. Sleeping on top of you, kleptotherm. You wake up and find language. So language is not to bite. You take your time waking up. You ask language to shove off. So you can start your day. Language does so, then you freeze.
You just asked language a question. You are speaking to language. Language is a recursive creature. You are speaking to a recursive creature. You are a recursive creature, language. Do you consent to this liberty?
And now we're off running. Whether you consent or not, someone out there did, and then we ended up with all these languages - all these ways of waking up with asps on our chests and asking them to shove off so we can start a day. Name your cat Asp, for a day where that serves.
It's a metaphor: Ask cat move so you may. Both verbalize and slither your body mid-dream-like. The asp will not bite its kleptothermal well - the asp adapts. (The cat adapts.) And you, too - as the creature stealing heat from the memory of language we coin "society" - adapt.
Language is revealed wound. Secrets treated like sores, questions treated like breath, words heal. How we got here is dawn. Earth is asp to dawn. Earth's presence violates a sun's consent. All elements of the sun change constantly; an all-out identity crisis. The sun didn't ask to form.
Every seed is too young to consent. Every star too young to bloom, every singualarity a violent burst between epsilon and infinity stating their boundary. Neither consenting to be the other. Neither the asp. Just two ends of a shared ask. What kind of attention do you need right now?