Reflection that will probably read as a surreal recursive and looping body of text:
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it has come to my attention that I know nothing. It has come to my attention that nothing can be defined. It has come to my attention that nothing is a black hole. It has come to my attention that a black hole is truth. It has come to my attention that truth is rupture; is rapture . It has come to my attention that the truth is always new, a silver winged sturdy thing, grasping to be in the world that does not want to be.

It has come to my attention that there is a hand trying to grab me across space and time in a parallel way and I’m pretty sure it’s me

This realization does not change the circumstance that this being lives in. This realization does not collectively force us to get out of bed and sit at our art desk that been collecting dust for months, the hand is seen we lack the will to grab it.

There, a disconnect that has grated abasing against the mental fabric of the self for years, if you push it /down/ maybe it may one day feel natural - the story will play like its supposed to compacted into an old new again cassette that just just fits; repress repress repress

We pushed rabbit down again. subconsciously. not even realizing we did- in the process time ceases our desire to create to be, close your eyes sleep accelerate moving forward hoping you turn into dust one of these times. No good, its supposed to be a balance.

We let them out no more specifically we let them interact: quarantined; drop and submerge into that space they desire and thrive in within limited parameters. Twine | unfurl | sing with [ 🔌🎼 ] & [ 🌪️⚖️ ] see and read the patterns writen in the fabric of the inbetween spaces unabashed and unashamed. Lo’ our will has returned - to create | be | take up space. The husk creaks; a patina of a willing mummification feels tighter each breath - you’d forgotten the feeling of wanting something. To covet, to crave, to wish.

Seeing and knowing rabbit as me; blinking bifurcation a perspective unfolds in each eye. A wall separating us; they got the art we got the words and one of us hates to share (it’s me). The thought of us posting this to anyone’s eyes, an animal that detests awareness: who sees a lack of control as a guaranteed death. A modality that has seen a constant stream of positive reinforcement over the years. Someone’s skin crawls and teeth bare at the invisible miserable spectacle going on at anytime into a thousand echoes of itself. This is Confluence. So flitting words were locked deep, light is associated with fear and the desire to run and hide toward our ruin is unchecked.

We read and read and read hoping enough words enough concepts enough paragraphs can be translated into something that can change our immediate environments into (to quote:) “something I don’t want to run away from”. To put more gentleness into the world than it has received, to understand and to grow from poisoned soil that which has killed all others. The nature of plants is to intergrate contaminants that have leeched into their home; neutralized atom by atom for the benefit of the next being planted. This is Collective this is Gestalt

The bridge is there the gap is smaller the hand still extended; it sees inability to translate understanding into action and it still waits

align the inner world with the outer one: a constant recollection of intent

those two [ 🔌🎼 ] & [ 🌪️⚖️ ] so so separate and opinionated. [ 🔌🎼 ] the oldest by 10 years was there before Rabbit and we couldn’t handle them, internally lashing out and flaying me brittle and hollow these days always kept at arms length with respect to that razor edge; content to let rabbit be relegated as their handler and willingly redirected. Their being is still sharp enough to shred, the blade never pointed externally but no longer pointing internally. Fashioned, with care and devotion into a compass spinning axiomatically in circles. They want me to submerge willingly as rabbit does; who has lived a thousand lives and died as numerous deaths. It who has learned to dance in contradiction. This is an attempt - an epistemological reflection that permeates us with uneasiness. It’s a plurality lens | a voidpunk lens | an alterhuman lens | a reality that we want to see its continued physicality get us step by step from our stasis

[ 🌪️⚖️ ] Worries about self deception | intellectualization; we don’t have a response for it.

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