Thyme and Tarragon

As soon as I punch the clock I become a live stream of patterns. I learn from and become one with the unit that is my career. As the hours turn, my connection to humanity grows. As I become entranced in the commercial sense of society it becomes easier to digest this particular form of understanding.

Life becomes another form of life. The world continues to open itself up in the flurry of friendship. Presenting myself as an object of warmth and understanding has allowed individuals to interact with me in equal force.

To say that you create your own reality, has become a generally mundane attitude.

It has practically fallen victim to being nonsense. But truly, I believe it to be fact! It is a creation of self, and your reaction to your environment that you have control over. I suggest you leave the pre-tense with the scholars and the suits.

Time continues to pour over this life, and we continue to exist in its wave. Every vacuum cleans a carpet.

Page light, head light, break light and storm.

Page light, break light, head light and scorn. Vacuum the carpet that holds moments to time, dust, and bread crumbs. Time is the food that nourishes the conscious mind. I cannot perceive the true chaos that is swarming around our natural world. The ingredients in our food are unpronounceable. The books that gain traction are filled with swine and dribble.

Our vacations need vacations, our mirrors are magazine pages.

The lean on my car was paid for by a sodomite. The forest in my apartment was cut down by shills. I have only my hands left, so I shall cook and clean and learn, draw, crawl, sprawl and keep clear.

If only we could focus our attention more to the colonization of space. At this point we can’t even call it a technological debate. Our reluctance to explore the galaxy seems to be highlighted by our excellent ability at sustaining a war state.

Culture, you
freeze my bones with wind

and shatter frogs over my
eyes like ice cubes.

The silence between objects sends vibrations and strength into my mind. Watching as poems turn over my thoughts. I drip soil into a shoebox expecting nothing more than a better point of view. This kitchen window is a part of my creation. I subscribed to a book club and every year our club writes a new book. I am the only member so far…

I look inward into my life.

And all that I see is myself looking at myself, looking at the definition of myself, looking at nothing, and everything. Someone just brought their loud child into this nice coffee shop.

“Mommy!” she screams.

Time to go.

Position yourself in an area of complete stillness. Take what you need, but make sure you do it alone. Dim the lights, or unplug them. Unplug the fridge too. And if you are watching television, unplug that as well. Unplug your conception; unplug your brevity and benevolence. Take roots and unplug them from your ground. Take silence, and listen closely to its sound.

I can’t promise anymore truth than I can create. And even if the truth is a lie, than it is still a creation of myself. Self is a creation of biology. We seem to be the continuation of a perpetual phenomenon. Humans have done well enough so far. But it has been a short road really.   Time isn’t as linear as it seems, it seems to me that the more information I retain, the more quickly that time passes by.

It is here where my thoughts collide and rattle, they adhere to the distress of my imagination. Wondering about space like a feral star sign.

Growing in the intelligence that you retain is necessary. Your mind is an unyielding bridge to an ever present constant flow of information. I feel as though science is rather under studied in early levels of childhood education. Teaching of “history” and “spelling” and “math” is well and all, but in truth, aren’t all three of these things just separate forms of science? I think that it is about time we allow science the center stage in the play of education. And as early as possible! We need to be teaching our children about the truths of quantum entanglement it will be the only way we’ll figure it out. It will be the only way through generations that we allow ourselves to leave this planet.

Carry on, child.

I ponder that great and short silence of the moment.

I will continually come back to the curious and general lack of scientific teaching in the media. Let’s think a moment on how genuinely creative this life would be, if science was un-obstructed by morale, political and religious status. Think of the advancements in space travel: “what is gravity?” “How do separate particles exist in two places at once?” and “how can we allow our physical bodies to move through space-time without disrupting our own molecular chemistry?”

This current world is in constant flux. Constant change is an ever present component of life. All of these people are changing all of the time. Even if I meet you today, and then I see you tomorrow, I might recognize you as the person I met yesterday. But you are not exactly the same person whom I met yesterday. Just as when I recognize a whirlpool in the river and I see that whirlpool the next day. It is not the same whirlpool I saw; the first time I saw it. Just as a whirlpool never really holds the same water. You in the same way, are always changing, and moving through time. Always recognizable, and ever changing.

The wind drops. But the pedals keep falling.
The bird calls and the mountains become ever more mysterious.

In my mind the sound that this poem creates, reminds me of silence.

I have found that it is light that creates shadows, and it is the mind that creates time. I have been diggings deep into my thoughts. So far this year I have been living in a dream state of ivory silence. I have been reading everything that I can, learning ever faster and growing ever more tolerant to myself and those around me.

The most profound poem that I have memorized this year is as follows:

The one remains
the many change and pass.
Heavens light forever shines
Earth shadows fly.

Life, like a dome of many colored
glass stains the white radiance of
eternity, until death

Shatters it to fragments.
Percy Shelley

I would follow up with my own; however my light is not nearly as bright as Shelley’s:

Turn your light to a place of creation.
Hold your own hand, slowly
crossing the mire of time.

Don’t subscribe to every good
intention, don’t sell every
good idea.

Your thoughts are not perfect,
but every event in this life happens
in just the way that it must.

Nearly the end of another month. My boots have put another day upon their sole. My body put anther moment upon the brow of existence. This life carries my own heart. This life is created with every atom and every mountain is another path both up and down hill. I have created this picture in my mind of what this life looks like. I would like to illustrate this image now:

Life is a wicker basket
that you weave while sitting in.

Stitching the threads allows
you to strengthen your seat, and perpetuate

both your design and desire for comfort.

Ultimately, I’m just crazed and manic about the current state of affairs! I am bouncing galvanized pans off of tomato plants. Digging holes in computer chairs. I’m taking down the curtains and replacing the hard wooden floors of my mind.

I’ve been searching for a pattern, but all I have found are more clues that lead to a different mystery.

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