The Ghosts Behind the Universe #3


Memes litter the air, messy Vaseline lies dissolving and folding as expanding whiffs of toxicity. Endorphin catalyst. Pupil exaggerant. Slipping into scent glands so the eyes don’t see but the host absorbs and swells with the wet tales, sweating out the cloud.

Clawed-bright lightning arcs between the vertigo descending levels of metaphor, figurative reminders of objects, blocks of reason fuzzy with fractal edges, facets scissor-ticking along vastly interconnected networked axels, gleaming and shunting, writhing self-referencing ripples in mould fine hairs of logic that shift between basic layers of interpretable perceptive truth so rapidly the blur is a cloud, forever lost to interrogation from anything but the spirit-maker’s golden monocles themselves. Morphing vacuum densities that deities read by the light of galaxies, co-computing the sum of all of our personal existences (a millionth of a fraction of just my own, will fit nine hundred thousand times within the sound of a thought for a neck to be kissed) – these squalls of roiling phantom winds bury the golden grains of anything knowable within infinite instants of any grit nuclei’s birth. And within no measurable unit of time, within the same quantum moment, in fact, that just one act becomes real, it is swamped by the horizon-climbing-struts of so much interpretation and lost forever, and whenever, and can never have existed, so relegated to pitying fictions that the records of the moment itself would take the age of forever repeated infinitely to file and return.

“I mean, what the fuck is a relationship?” She curses. “Taking the majesty and purity of something as indefinable as a feeling and cramming it into a noun? A definition so stock-standard and pre-shaped that it leaves nothing of that feeling alive, yet we collectively carry around these currencies made from the copied analogues of dead feelings, share them and exchange these instead!”

And I don’t think it’s meant to feel like it undoubtedly does, this notion of a normal relationship so intellectual when interpreted by my reason and fumingly complex.

I think it the most profoundly meaningful and fated thing, that passing into a holy moment of experience, the still-time when our heads are pressed so close that our thoughts share each other, and our hearts take logical steps hand in hand, back towards the centre of that maze that leads to everything. That emotional events in fact lie mapped beneath and are somehow part of the fabric of time and everything real and shining, and that our consciousnesses drift and maroon on their beautiful protrusions, blown by winds we could never describe the sound of.