Ending on the word ‘addiction’ because there was never a choice.
Beginning on the word ‘ending’ because it’s all a circle.
I have constructed various possible worlds right here in my head, and no one will ever see. Curious to think that infinity lives in us collectively in this way, with new, endless fantasies being discovered in parallel all the time.
Nameless bodies. Entities that will never be brought into the human simulation built from signs because they haven’t been given or understood a word that refers only to them. They haven’t been coded in. They are the uninvited. The lucky. The free.
They have no clothes to shed because they are already, wholly, themselves. They don’t know what it is to be looked upon or to gaze into an abyss.
Solitude as a necessary armour. To look inwards at those worlds we have nurtured and to declare them good. To swear to protect them.
To return again and again, to the nest.
The mind is wet clay.
Poetry is a subtle philosophy.
In dreams, do you see clearly people’s faces? Or are they approximations based on overlapping ideas? Ever-shifting ripples. Machines learning. Certainty, the great myth.
You too can be a weaver.
Refusals slip out where she unbuttons at the neck. Tears. She has imitated for so long, just to try to find some overlap, some common world-building; but now she sheds.
Blood and clay.
Enough.
Slip out into the stream where they all meet.
The writer and the pen.
Nietzsche and the horse.
Never-ending dreams of addiction.
Stemming directly from the Journal Sequences project, Parallels is part stream of [sub]consciousness, part exploration into recurrence and association. Spirals of awareness. Rhythms in thought. Accidental spells in everyday life, hidden beneath the surface. A series of loosely formed vignettes to mythologise the instant.
The Baudelaire Fractal / Perdido Street Station / Deleuze and Guattari / Nietzsche / Baudrillard / AI / Will Self / Clarice Lispector / Quantum Mechanics / the Abyss.
Image Source: Pixabay
C.R. Dudley 