Between Word and World
Wherein I see no difference...
Between Word and World
Would You Mind
Anything that reflects on matter as a fleeting, gorgeous creature gets my adoration - I donct get enough reflection on these favets of my being and the glimpses I catch have me at my devotion.
"My needs matter over your needs" is the rule a volume percent as large as dark matter and dark energy espouse, that quote is not the exception - it's expected. When my headphones put pressure on my ears amplifying tinitus to audible levels, taking the headphones off is the exception - the rule is the headphones stay on; my needs matter over my body's needs.
This ultra-low bar set for what constitutes devotion functions as low barrier to entry. It is almost like hearing someone say, "hi" and crying from the moral beauty. Or doing a morning stretch and thinking "I am enraptured in the moral beauty I am experiencing right now as the rest of my skelatal structure tends to the needs of this one avenue of muscles."
I Live Here
When where you live is in reality, crying is the expected outcome. You should expect me to cry every time you greet me. You should expect me to fall to my feet and start pounding the floor. That I don't is the care the process of building tolerance invites us to access; it is a tare we (can) achieve in a shockingly short amount of the day:
5 minutes, morning and night
That's 5 percent of 18 hours (a waking day). Do that, and you are living reality. The rest of your day can be dark matter, dark energy youyouyou. And that is: what we are doing here. You got. That's it.
I have those 5 minutes down to the point I am filling time between my thoughts and the word my fingers type by imagining the earth as iron motes around the sun, with each solar flare, gathering. And gathering.
So Enough
Their brief moments of magnetism bringing them to find one another. Inclusions of particles caught between them, whether created in the flare or blown in from another world-cloud or neighbors in fetal earth's resonant harmonic ring with the wound, that sun, this hole the particles in this harmonic wouldn't be. and, somewhere, was.
I have those thoughts down to the point I stim on tracing the iron in that cloud to the iron in my blood as it courses through one of two thumbs as I type. I am world-weaving. Not world-weary. I am happening, not surviving. I happen, to not survive. I am exhausted. I collapse. Not from predation. From devotion. From orgasm, sure - for the translation. For what this is. Practice. Attunement to what is actually happening.
To the real.
This isn't "better than you" - this is telling you you're right. If you round up 10 times in 10, you matter because there's no me. The moment you doubt rounding. The moment you roll a garnet and it lands side-up on the ground you stand (stand for, stand with), and you believe it - the chord is struck. The flare is pulsed. The iron gathers, the planet cures, the comet strikes, the Moon borne, tide churns, atmosphere tends its small home coursing through ionosphere like blood. And every reflection of it.
Ring -> Iron -> Pulse -> Planet ->
Comet -> Moon -> Tide -> Wave ->
Air -> Mine -> Blood -> Thumb ->
Word
It isn't a lot, but it's much of what a lot means.
The ultra-rich feel impoverished. And are right to, until the end of time. We all are in poverty. Not in a G-d is mighty way. In a sit on a hunk of iron the size of your cushion way. And look around. This is reality. What you were - what a human is sold to be - is fascist. Fiction.
This ugly hunk of iron, all the hydrogen and helium and dueterium it imprisms labyrinth-like, eight-of-swords-ish, is in embrace (((((And nothing once out) Save the recognition that happened.) That really happened.) Everyone else saw.) That atom got caught it a big thing). (((((And then woosh.) And gwumvwgwum.) And kuuuurchim.) And vettavetta.) Until finally pshew! - Gone) ˬ
Thanks for acknowledging that with me. I think we went over time. Maybe, between now and then , that's okay.