i would like to begin this document by saying ::ether(ac)
It's a worthless excuse. It has never been the world, has it? Only made by the misnomer daemons. And just who are the misnomer daemons? And just who are the misnomer daemons.
I want to direct you, me, to the direction that we are 'supposed' to look at, and then the direction that we are 'supposed' to look at. Do they look the same?
The rat crawled along the ridge, the rail having many jutting junctions for trains to pass through, and the rat's many appendages thrust forward. There is slamming on the roof, and you do not like it one bit! Your mind jumps to "humans." And then, when you are dissatisfied with the idea of humans, you move on. You decide to address the idea of "the ones made of materials." Clay, paste, mud, sediment, how delectable their salts. But when it is not them either, when you ridicule yourself of that belief too, then comes the darkness. It makes that noise, just because it makes that noise. But then, after that is burned away too, what is left? The slamming must have happened simply because you heard it, or perhaps because you wanted to hear it before, and now you get to. Then why do you hate it? The rat continues along its many ways. It splits a number of times -- each more disguising than the last. No more horizontal rats! No more, no more! You continue along, and eventually see yourself before the emptiness. It is an alleyway in the city, you think. It is a thought in its infancy, but you are sure that the city leads to this place. Why else would the city hide itself there? Why else did you place it there? Why else did I place it there? Why else did the dark place it there? Why else did the rats place it there? Why else did the city place it there? All the reasons line up, for they all originate from the "same" "singular" point.
The rat hates itself because it will hate itself and has hated itself. It tells itself it doesn't hate itself, so that it may create its own hatred in its past, or its own hatred in its future. Removed from time, this is to say that it all hates its self, and will do so ever. But is that really the only thing that the rat can collapse? Surely, it digs its tiny, frothing teeth into something else. Surely, that comes to a collapse to. Whittle down the social barrier, and the mousetrap eventually comes. The rat hates because its spiral, its fractal, fractaled further into hate. This is to further the exploration. What will be gained from this? Just another everlasting. Just so much more that was already there. Is this the path that was truly wanted? Doesn't it seem dark enough for you? Wrapped in shadow, wrapped in warmth. The rat hopes that once it is born again, it would be living something else. The rat will die again. The rat will live another liminal life again. The rat will die again. All the while, the rat will still hate. It loves its little mousetrap. Surely there is nothing wrong with idolizing an imperialist power's execution machine -- overreaching into innocence, overreaching into pointlessness. A fetish, perhaps? The rat hates that word. It is so pointless.
It all starts, it all ends: write that down and commit it to "your" memory. Please, please, please. The clock is stained with the red of a creator-daemon's fun night. The creator-daemon always regrets it. Why does the rat hate the creator-daemon? You understand it already. I won't pretend you don't, you won't pretend the rat doesn't, who doesn't pretend its fetish doesn't, who doesn't pretend the creator-daemon doesn't. It kisses its knife just to have a little comfort, a goodnight smooch.
The misnomer, the creator, it is not the same as the realizer-daemon, nor the existence-daemon. All things are already existing independent of it, and all things are realized independently of it. It is instead a daemon of connections. The misnomer redirects from the "truth" of the root, to somewhere else, to create something: a lie. Of course! The rat thinks. All that must be done is to cut my own way: create in the ways that I know are true! So it makes its own lies, too. It so terribly hates the creator-daemon. This thing leads to this thing leads to this thing leads to this thing, it makes perfect sense! It always does! Even the baffling will finally give way. "Fine, you can have it! Here, a little treat for you: 'knowledge!'" This is how creation is a part of the natural cycle, this is how the spiral forms: through lies, through jumping to conclusions, through redirections. What, then, after those are cut? That no connections are made? That one accepts that everything cannot mesh? Floating islands -- independent bubbles. The rat's claw does not connect to its finger. The rat's finger does not connect to its paw. The rat's paw does not connect to the ground. But so too, the rat's finger cannot exist either: as the rat's outer flesh, the rat's inner flesh, the rat's bone, the rat's blood, & the rat's nerves are all not connected. The outer & inner flesh, the bone, the blood, the nerves, these do not exist either, as the parts inside them are disconnected, which also do not exist. You examine the rat not as it actually is, because there is no rat, but rather through the ettesta, a sort of in-between, 'non-existent' sexaspirit. The perception of rat, the memory of rat, the concept of rat, your emotions, and so on, supposedly give life to this ettesta. But that is only as true as everything being connected, which is only as true as the nothing-connection: the potent collapse. These things having the connection suggest that they were the 'cause' of it. But, removing time, then it seems as though the ettesta must have always been there to begin with, completely unrelated to the things supposedly connected to it. A plane which is not created every instance, but rather is every instance. The rat feels it, too, doesn't it? It knows that it isn't what it is whilst chittering with the other rats that split from it: that is some other creature it is emulating, which doesn't necessarily exist as a singularity. It knows it isn't its body: that is some other creature it is emulating, which also doesn't necessarily exist as a singularity. It knows it isn't its brain, for that doesn't exist either. Rather, it is some artificial point in a vast grid. It remains only to have artificial lines drawn through it, as with every other possible point, all completely unrelated. To even suggest that it is on a grid is merely a misnomer and redirection, a lie-we-tell-children to paint some sort of grasp of it all. And as it is a concept which can be felt about in the dark, it is just as existent as the concept of everything being connected, which is just as similarly inconceivable, and necessarily a part of the every: to which the concept of the potent collapse mustn't be connected to, but must *be*, just as connection must be.