I long for flow states, but to fly high above the clouds. To make machine and tools out of lesser demands, but seek the intuitive range of indescribable impulses, to render truest conclusions from earthly signals, but I am in perennial tension, a cardinal opposition.
There are no words that capture the state, other than the vague image of flipping this desk, and witnessing chaos take a hold of my perception. I can only live in the middle. There is immersion or there is the watchmaker, and I cannot, wilfully, do both.
Yet, there is something worse than faith that emboldens me, a sense of not quitting isn’t descriptive enough. It’s akin to a form of madness. I am unsatisfied with an individual undercooked, it’s not fit for the rituals of being. I emplore them to be more, to strive.
It is a salve for myself, I once thought. A form of projection, though I realise that even when I am at my most actualised, it is there. It’s a rising of the tide, an expansive, radiating altruism that underpins a depth of belief in the universal accord of relating.
Time, is “the fire in which we burn”, but a fire is capable of warmth, as well as scarring us. It is our respect to its proximity, that we must endear ourselves with. Too close, and we melt in its constancy. Too far from its capricious flames, and we are not healed by its radiant embers.
If we are not in flux, time pays us no mind, but to those with the irrepressible urge to transform, time is a watchful fundament, elastic and torturous in equal capacity. Yet despite its nature, time offers us the one potential, enduring in appeal. Time heals.
Love transcends time, thus love does not strictly heal. Healing occurs through returning to the mortal plane with dimensional inspiration, and that’s all we can hope for. At best, love offers the potential of healing, through which an ontological hope is found.
I’ve veered off course, but that is the arrow of fate, is it not? I’ve failed once again to articulate the experience of the temporal intermixed with the relational qualities of perception. The opposition, seldom ceases, the tension fails to abate. It is defining.
I long for the glass to break, for someone to rupture time, and for time to reel from the instance. Where perception is folded upon itself, and a mobius strip of ineffable surrender encapsulates two people. There is, a potential in this world for it. I am sure of that.
The chronological account for our lives is the reminder that we must cherish these moments, as impossible as that is for a functional meatbag, we must look to flow in accordance with time in honorific surrender, an art that appreciates no subterfuge, for its encompassing merit.