Level 7 - Loquacious
Join Date: Apr 2012
The Slipping Chains on my Mortal Cog
My grip on reality varies with each newly pixelated iteration of space.
I governor my own onslaught of neural currents; I pace it.
Breathing, catching the photonic barrage, and regulating the potential of its action.
Every breath, on the verge of surge.
Tamping the focal point of energy
packing it in
creating a concentration of resistance.
Then controlling its inward exogenous release.
Turning this eternal flood into palatable gulps.
This precise science is fragile;
Knowing how to optimize
the filling of a bubble
without fracturing delicate bonds.
Pushing tension to a paper-thin threshold, yet not beyond.
All in a moment, I see the next billion instances
coming at me in rapid succession,
A Flipbook Future that slaps me with each new page.
Time Torques my Territory into Efficient Tension;
an eternal genesis of consumptive production
A Ouroboric Furnace that burns me into compassionate existentialism.
A grinding Shephard tone emanating into eternity.
I am a spun top,
feeling the first signs
of a slanting cant,
noting a fracture in stability,
feeling the friction
my eventual collapse.
But. . . .
I will get up and spin again.
Breathe, run, and jump again.
Higher, harder, farther. . . making each subsequent fall that much more momentous.
Crushing the Continuum into an explosive scattering
that quick reforms into the next unique manifestation of space.
Spawn, Surge, Collapse. . . . Spawn, Surge, Collapse
Say hello to my frontal lobe.
Last edited by wisefool; 05-22-2020 at 07:45 PM..