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Posted: 2025-02-15
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I remember the day that I was born again, sunlight flashing through my eyes. Nothing present. Nothing broken. All I felt was a sting.

I think that it made sense at some point, because the idea that I was was not entirely foreign. There was always some accommodable rationale to be harbored like a thief so squarely embedded in that night cityscape. Nevertheless, all things flow, and if I could be said to be anything, then it would be there at that point where things collided—that feeling of that placid, perfect today, where I minded my business and lightning struck. Not actual lightning, but embers finding themselves instigated by fervent creativity. I could see those thoughts spiraling, but instead of negative devolution, it unraveled and unfolded in ways that struck and produced from this impact a powerful deluge of bliss. Things combined, and attachments re-considered their stances. All these things aside, childhood had this irreparable quality of being unimaginably concise. That singular striking sensation of moving, and that feeling of being lifted up and then hoisted down.

When I was a child, I knew well that I could gain little in attempting anything too big, but I did work within a system. And progression in some form was promised. Development milestones. The ideal of adulthood. All of them were brought to me like candles and rituals all in service of projecting visions that spoke of a great and grand future, one that surpassed all previous eras. 

But the thing was that I did not know much about the past before my time, so I just took it at face value and believed in the specialness of my life at the time, not because I was the most significant thing in the world, but because I saw the small moments as incredibly large. This made anything foreshadowing even greater things as infinitely larger.

Then, as all children did, I went and experienced the world, in all its wonder, until I could not have enough. And even after all that again and again,  when it should have switched tracks, I just came running back, like I was addicted. It was magical, and each moment burned into me passion after passion, like I was being carried into the flow of a fearsome bagyo.

But now, I'm a young adult. 22 years old. I've seen many examples of people being in some confused state, each in their own unobviously crooked way. But just one video shared by them of their thoughts was enough to confirm it. These people were stupid. I was stupid. I was like them. I was like me. Even now, as I conceptualize the past and the ongoing present, I know that my use of "was" in regard to some past-present confirms that there is little divergence, divorcement, separation of disaffection, and loss to be found, since all that that I was was already embedded deep in the psyche.

I could barely walk without a lean in the foot reminding me of memories forever branded upon the surface of my quasi-phrenological dome-covered brain.

In these scenarios, I could not step back, forward, or to the side without an overwhelming invasion of my systems and the way I was. I was a circuitry assaulted by malware propagation, and the robotic movements that should have divorced moment to past instead brought further misalignment and derangement to my psycho-capacity. I fell to the earth, leaning forward, wishing, praying, puking, singularly wishing. 

Even if not physical, a silent collapse effectually stopped the attack, like a bucket pour of water stopping a computer from being further infected from a computer virus. 

I kept walking, knowing well that I just had to maintain congruence some way somehow. Compartmentalization became only necessary. But it felt like I was subscribing to ideas that promoted wanton evil. This internal conflict. The loss of balance and confusion was horrible. I continued to discover that I could only find the words to describe myself. I walked, tried, moved, sung, danced, thought, adjusted, collapsed, broke down, recovered halfway, and never found that point of clarity, always in some pre-state of anticlimactic frustration. I could not at all shut the door. 

That was what that total psychic embedding was like.

But I am still me, even with all that that I had.

That was why the idea of writing appealed to me, because the "still-me" could reach out somewhere and try for a while to think. In some way and form, I could make something. I did not have to feel this way, it felt. I could feel it, have it, and experience it. But it was having all that and still being there—even as I stood—that mattered the most to me.

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    Chapter 1          
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─── Feeling-Thing ───

I remember sitting down by a bench, watching the sunlight. I think that I had a moment to breath. Always that same sensation. That feeling. That uninterrupted feel. It was like sitting down, but there was a prism through which multiple lines passed and ricochetted. That feeling encapsulated the existence and consciousness on which I stood. I would skulk about the world, but that remaining ontological feeling grabbed at my brain strings and had me by the end again and again. It pulled and stretched my capacity for Platonic Forms. I could not at all grasp at it to turn. A psychological transmission of all that I was in that singular throughline, that moment of object–I-am. 

I could not at all think. I grabbed something, and it felt real and concrete. But I could not drink it or execute some action against it, for it, by it, along it, or in any other possible prepositional-to-reality relationship. It felt there, but unsummoned. I thought, and this was separate, and I imagined, but it was utterly inane. I felt lacking, but no deficiency could be described.

I marched, but little progress was made. Something felt, but no material object or ting-a-ling.

I could, but no "could" had a "marching," or progressively definitional, capacity. It felt lacking, but not entirely unsummoned. If it was felt, it felt nulled, or removed of *cadence* (a marching capacity or essential "marching" of something in-beyond its pointers or signs).

That moment was crystal upon post-overload reflection, but that damnation, in that vivid moment, wasn't.

Moment after moment, all things came. That was how it was.

A car moved. and It was corner-siding. It was there, a fixture in my reflecting eyes. I knew that my vision was static, and the cars were draining in the basin-like corners.

I could not at all imagine, but imagination was free. I thought of birds, and birds, in that moment, were free to think of me. That ontological relationship was valid, because imagination and person-in-reality had little dissociation save for the self and the imagined object or thing-of-being. I could not, so I could. That inability catalyzed this connection between the bird and myself, but it was self-imagined, brought up and created, like a child. But a child was separate, but the consciousness is segmented. The bird was as real as I was, because I was only as real as this current stream of consciousness allowed. Once over, it was like the bird. It was and wasn't.

─── Opening ───

One morning, I woke up, and by the time that it was done, I think I remained seated. That feeling was real. I could sit down, and I knew well the power of standing up just as much as sitting down. I could interpret that, and I could insert myself into those movements. There was no dissociation. It was only necessity as is.

I felt the ground, and it was placid and clear. My feet could feel its groundedness. I did not have any dissociation on that part. I had complete confidence.

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