Have you ever come across a moment where the situation seems to have always existed in this particular way? What I mean is that sometimes I stumble across a seemingly insignificant moment like this one – dockworkers prepping and loading a catch in the early morning – and for a moment what I witness seems as if it has always been that way. Maybe a byproduct of memory snags my sleeve. The sensation of some eternal stain trails behind the simulation of the senses. And for a brief moment, an ephemeral scene seems as if it lasts forever in a strange loop or a pocket of simulated memory. A mise en scène stuck on repeat in a strange theater suspended somewhere accessible to other minds in other ages or even other planets. Transferred across other mediums. A mass of images collected behind the frame of consciousness seeping in over time from a cosmic hive mind.
At birth, the child carries the womb out and unfurls it, but it keeps unfurling as the child grows into an adult, and never ceases unfolding until the material is rolled back up like a rug put back into a box with other rolls in deep storage. Patterns interlock across endless fabrics knitting themselves together into a greater common rug known as existence. The inside is always the outside. No matter how deep one unfolds into the experience of consciousness, a surface awaits, for the interior is its own exterior. The womb was never left behind but carried out with the other countless re-wombings that populate the planet, the greatest womb through which all of her wombs birth themselves into a singular consciousness segmented only by the illusion of corporeal cells called bodies. The spin of the great mutual unfurling of all wombs coincides with and inhabits the greatest womb hurling through the deep space of greater wombs yet to be eventually carried through the vacuum of a black hole again otherwise known as the rebirth canal.
The space consumes the form and the form the space. The terrain absorbs itself. Color sops up difference. Separations pinch. Holes twist open. Pathways stretch from crevices. This strange material is caught in a stagnant churn. Reforming the form without any original form to begin with and no final form to reach. Tossing and tumbling into itself, it ingests what it discharges and discharges what it ingests. Its gestures are traces; its cracks experiences. A static vortex suspended by its own force hovers through the emptiness.
If vision itself were visible, it would gush out like a current of foamy water from a facade of bone. If language were visible, it would be seen swirling in and out of the cranium like the sea flowing through a cave. If tranquility were visible, it would be a skull suspended by the flow of what it contains.
Once there was a diver who found a special school of fish. Whenever he stood on the sea floor by a certain rock near a hole that seemed bottomless, the school of silvery fish would appear above him. And they swam into shapes of the things and people in his life and showed him what they were doing. He saw the fish swim into the shapes of his mom falling and his dad catching her. And when he got to shore that day he visited his parents and they asked him how he knew what had happened. On another dive, the fish swam into the shape of his son who helped an old woman carry a pail of water. And he told his son later what a good boy he was and his son looked at him in amazement. And the fish swam into the image of a ring while others swam through it. He went to the cave near the village and trapped enough game to last the village a season. The people celebrated with a feast and aksed him how he knew about the game hiding out in the cave and he said it was the fish who told him and they laughed and thought he didn’t want to tell anyone his secret. The last time anyone saw him was when he went for a swim and the fish showed the largest dome he had ever seen. There must’ve been thousands more of these silvery fish who made a dome that stretched as far as the eye could see. And a glowing ball of reflections ascended from the bottomless hole and took its place on high under the ceiling and appeared to the diver as a waterfall of sunlight. And then all the fish swam down the hole and he after them.
Down by the concrete river, the spirits arise from patches of datura where the spiral that became a pinwheel stretches itself again to take on the form of ghostly plant emanations pollinated by the consciousness of any wanderer who lingers long enough for the vegetal spirits to unfurl their psychoactive shapeshifting tendrils and guide the awareness toward the unity of all things through the merging of forms and the collective existence of iterative semblances.
caustic lacing loosens the skin of silhouettes buried and buoyed by forgetfulness wobbling on the plane
Once there was a hermit who lived in a giant shell on a tiny island. And each room in her shell was connected by a central spiral staircase. As she got older, her shell grew taller with more rooms being added. And she always stayed in the newest room at the very top where she made herself a new bed out of kelp and a table and chair made from pebbles. Whenever there was a storm and the sea covered the island, her shell stayed put because it was so heavy after all those years of rooms being built. And when she got older than anyone else alive, her newest room in the shell overlooked the clouds that drifted over the sea. And if she wasn’t in her new room, she was visiting the other rooms where she felt as old or as young as when the room was built. On her last day, she spiraled out of her shell for the first time since she began building it and sat on the beach to feel the water on her toes and looked at the sunlight bouncing off the water until her last nightfall. And she laid back in the sand and saw millions of shells twinkling in the night sky before she went to sleep beside her own sparkling shell with the final thought of the greater part she had played by doing what had come so naturally.
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The fabric of the cosmos is woven with quantum foam. Tap into the deep connection that everyone’s consciousness is a part. Warning: staring at this image can result in less worry and more love.
Disclaimer: staring at this image for too long may result in the ability to levitate. Lightness of being can produce euphoric effects. Use with caution.
Life is random. So is the process of these brain melting images. Be careful to not look at them too long or else who knows what might emerge in your mind’s third eye! Use at your own risk.
Randomness abounds! Stare at your own risk. Brain melting may occur.
Skating on the astral plane is a necessary requirement if one is concerned with getting to the next level of existence.
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