the engine engages, the engine does the same thing it has rotted along for something you wish you could express atemporally::ether(ac)
The rhythm of it all displaces a certain something beneath it. It is a wonderful sight, for be sure. The sounds of Omeneten's vocal cables. You feel that if you listen closely, you can hear them. Maybe you can even count them! Maybe you can even connect them in fun new ways. But that isn't what will be the fertile ground. The ground which births something far better than you have now. No, no! This must be it! This must, too! All these things, they will give me a new vault to place my gold. For it is important, my gold. There is always something of importance: a burden. And there is always a need to displace this burden, to drop it elsewhere. It almost seems as though this is just equally as pointless as hate. Maybe foolishly, we will explore a connection on the beach side, and see what the rhythm of the pleasant waves will foretell. There is a serenity to it all. Just because it is all so simple, when it looks like this. Even when it doesn't, even when it is all just a number of pleasant, floating isles, orphaned seashells, rejectionists of the waves and by the waves, it still feels so simple.
A driving something, a coal-in-heart of the beautiful carbuncle. This something allows a new age to blossom forth: but one filled with haste. What will these emotions, these muse-driven passions, be lead to? What riverbank should they wash upon? Surely, it can't be any given thing. For some, it has to be a public display. All must hear my cry, all must be healed by my words, all must share my joy, all must be enraptured by the emotions which spawn inside themselves. Typically, this drive is limited only to that-of-perceived-kin. After all, sharing it with the black mirror simply is not enough! Sharing it with the wood is pointless, no. It must have flesh-and-bones theoretically connected to its social gatekeep. I tease it now, but it still does make sense, and I have done so myself, and it could arguably be seen as something I still do. But so few of the social seem as things that I could genuinely speak with, so I am versed in the other directions the drive takes. For others, it may be a sense of hoarding and wonder. I share only with myself this beautiful moment. There is a simple wonder to be had in knowing that you will likely be the only one to ever experience a particular joy & its circumstances. Even though there may be trillions of similar instances before and after, nothing will have the exact chemistry of that particular instance. The desire to have that sensation, the passion-nary-writ, leads some to seek out that which isn't explored typically, or at least it seems as such.
Yet, there so frequently seems to be a particular fate that befalls this, that of shifting to another desire (such as switching from the passion-nary-write to that of sharing, as sharing and expressing the joy of having experienced something that would never be experienced in the same way again), or to be placed in a sense of ever-growing challenge, or to have a numbness crawl before them. They may widen their scope with time, eventually noting that some things have experienced similar things, and feeling dissatisfied. Indeed, it only counts if nobody ever has had anything even remotely similar experienced! To the new frontiers we go! As things more and more cybernetically interlink, the intensities begin to fade, as the scope grows further. Of course, somewhat amusingly, this dissatisfaction and numbness is experienced by the sharing driving something as well. What happens when one achieves their original goals of sharing, their thing-of-kin ratio that has been enticed by the emotion? It is either that they continue on, but this time with something larger in mind, something more bombastic, something that will make people feel in ways never before seen -- the similarities are already fairly clear. Or, they abandon this vault, and continue on, their lump of growing gold upon their back evermore, still crawling forth to see something new. Either way, the beast which trusted its gold has died, and a new one has took its place. That debut artist is dead, and will remain dead; now here is the exposed artist. Isn't the birth-life-death cycle so much fun, so enticing. I wonder what happens to the exposed artist next!
There is another, and many more, but I tire of writing the rest of them, as they can be easily generalized. We'll see that there is a number of unspoke similarities between this and the last two and all the rest as well. There may be those who relish in the concept of experiencing some intensity, be it a feeling of connection, sublime, joy, depression, lunacy, and so on. But rather than enjoying it all to themselves, they relish in the fact that there are so many countless times where practically, despite slightly different circumstances, the same experience has been had. But this driving, this way of placing one's gold always seems to last only as long as a cold does, and is as easily forgotten as a mandatory day of labour: a fleeting winter day. Each instance examined through this lens leads itself to being the same as any other moment before it. There is a sensation of never having felt like one placed any of their gold anywhere at all, as there is still a thought that all of those last memories blend together. Additionally, there is a sense of not knowing what even constitutes as something important enough to either examine through the lens, or being important enough to remember altogether. Perhaps it is because it does not have the sense of a measurable metric that the previous two did -- or rather that the metric itself could almost be considered the amount of times that things have been examined through this lens. Eventually, this too falls into numbness, or becomes impossibly difficult. Things blur together, things all seem great from a blank retrospection, but a deeper analysis reveals a sort of emptiness that all the previous ones did, because they might as well have been the same as the rest, and all the upcoming ones will be the same as well. Or, if this is digested, then there might be a seeking to find only the most of the most, be it the most shared experience, or the most intense of shared experience, which isn't shared though the social path, but rather though the knowledge that others have made memories of it: the extreme mundanes, the bucket list.
There are countless more. Some may even take enjoyment and feel that their muse-burdens are sufficiently expressed by the hopping between so many different forms of inspiration & motive, or through exhausting as many avenues as possible. But is there really such a need for an endless chase? Wipe ones finger across the candle, feeling the sensation that one should be burned for doing such a thing, and then feeling so refreshed after you have the little playdate. It feels as though the sensations of hatred and this sensation of the inspiration are so similar. The art of connection, the art of redirection and remisnomer, creating collaged boxes of what is and isn't and could be and won't be; the art of being the misnomer-daemon, the art of rejecting it and embracing it and rejecting it and embracing it; the art of wanting to find something new, something outside of it all -- it all feels so similar to that of these burdens. This fractalization and ever-growing|shrinking mass of disconnect|connect, it all feels like it is the same. Perhaps this is to no surprise: existential hatred is just another sort of gold, another intensity, another muse-burden, which one is constantly chrysopoeiaized of and by. But then what? The rain trickles down the same way it always has. the roots are touched by their own organs, fleshy-meaty things that we would never touch if they were of our own kin. But they don't look so bad, from our perspective! It is as if there was never any point in it to begin with. The rails of the train rush forth, artificially placing themselves before the eyes of the vehicle can come into view, just in the nick of time. The grass continues to spread, impossible to kill fully and truly. Even if one changes to a different plot, there is still the grasses and the clovers. Even if one burns it all away, the memory still lingers. Even as one forgets or dies, there is still the concept, everlasting. How does one decisively cut something of such a nature: how does one cut any given thing? It taunts the solar killer so, doesn't it. For regardless of what happens, it always still lives, it always still thrives, and it always, all, fractalizes further and further. Surely, there are dragons you wish dead as well. It doesn't just ache to know that such a clean, through cut isn't possible through the traditional routes. It burns, it stings in such a watery way, slowly calloused and scabbed over. Those pains you despise, those horrors which should not be, which are just so commonplace in your first tongue: everlasting, ever multiplying, no weapon will be able to cut it down. Truly, it is rancid in its most vivid forms: how can one not be burdened by this hate? To even use the hate as a drive is just another step into the birth-life-death cycle, so pointless and irritating: it isn't like you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you... haven't already done this.
And yet, this too will fade. Eventually, ones exponential exploration will be overlapped by something else, and then the cycle will begin again elsewhere upon the grids. The rat remains utterly in disrepair from the implanted parasite, the fungal growth worming its way through. What was once a pore becomes a gateway, locked off but still pass through by so many phantoms. It twitches. It cannot see, and it does not know if it is because of the malfunction of the organ of the eye, the connectors between the eye and the brain, the brain, or the connector between the brain and the perceiving alter. It cannot move in much the same way, it cannot breathe in much the same way. The lines between the rat and the infection have blurred, to the point where it is difficult to know if the rat is in infected pain or experiencing the joy of thriving, or if the fungus is experiencing the joy of thriving or infected pain. This facade of separation, or perhaps facade of connection (of rat-to-rat and fungus-to-fungus), becomes even more vague the more one looks in the insides, in the cells, in the essences. You shiver. You leave. You go home. You live. You forget about it. It's died a long time ago, your "selves" and your socials have died a number of times sense. It did fester at you for a while, but now it hasn't. One removes the rings of the tree, one strips it back to a vertical grain, or perhaps something more abstractly proportioned, and it reveals that it hasn't ever mattered -- it was as simple as that. The thought of the rat reaches you again some other time, and it has less of a pronounced effect. It is almost as though you recognize it, and then smile that things have changes, perhaps refined, since that time. Not the practices, as rat-fungi like that still surely exist, not the suffering of things of similar nature. But rather, that you have refined, that you have digested, and perhaps are as much a part of the rat-fungi as you aren't.