Monday, May 20, 2013


Reality- you are an conscious projection, crystallized through time.

Myth- You are a metaphysical proposition, alternating between past and future
Reality- You navigate the interstices of fact and fiction by underscoring your apocryphal veracity.

Myth- You deploy time and space to contextualize and congeal me.

Reality- I confer being on you and you snatch my inexorable truthfulness.

Myth - I merely underpin your own implausibility through reifying your constituents.

Reality- Do you postulate that the structures of temporality buoyed up to ensure continuance of human commerce and interchange are thereby questionable.

Myth- I merely posit that they are appropriable. In the interface of  past, present and future is an unceasing traversing of lateral pluralities wherein that you call time intermingles and dissolves into primordial uncertainty.

Reality- How can the contingent, the chronological lose its sense of propulsion as external time syncopates to the beat of progression.

Myth- But what is external time but a return to the amniotic womb, to primeval blankness. It is time within us that is the hieroglyph or the palimpsest where the perspectival and the internal intersect.

Reality- By that logic you are a temporal construct as well.

Myth- Undeniably i am yet you who claim to bring me to being are also nothing but a construct. In that sense i am a meta construct, a construct of a construct.

Reality- You  repudiate me my sense of realness yet look around there are incontrovertible evidences of my intractable truth, ineluctable facts that stare you in the face. I project some of these in concatenation with others and make you a reality.

Myth- My reality draws attention to its own tenuousness. And the intransigent signifiers you posit as ubiquitous undergo metamorphosis every instant, though imperceptible to your self satisfied gaze. The interplay of electrons, atoms, neuronal phenomena, quarks is the only reality and the reality they clearly demonstrate is that there is, indeed, no reality.

Reality- Your claim that uncertainty is the only real seems convincing, though tough to ingest.

Myth- Trust me when we take self deprecating, consciously informed pride in our non ontology though we masquerade as ontological, reality or whatever it is becomes easier to exist with or perhaps we begin to live on equivocally exhilarating terms with ourselves. Carpe diem.


The waves cascade up and down in an incessant flurry of ebbing and flowing. Consciousness ripples with thoughts, submerged, surfaced, conjoined, severed. The waves roil and advance, ceaselessly thrusting forwards only to retreat and then to reemerge in endlessly reduplicating cycles. Consciousness keeps enshrouded thoughts that lie suspended between the fully conscious and the unconscious. A propulsive force juts out a sliver and then retracts it, only to push it out again. Yet, in some imperceptible way, the perceiving consciousness has metamorphosed the architectonic of the thought, imbuing it with iridescent hues.

The oleaginous waves fuse with the incandescence of the sun. The consciousness that thinks blends with the consciousness that thought. At a distant horizon the sea and sky meet which the more puckered the eyes to enlarge the vision expand shrink into expansive unknowingness. The dissolving of land and sea is so further away so as to almost seem illusory. Hence consciousness, swaying in the self containment of cognition frays its edges and abrades its boundaries with cracks of unfathomability almost as if, the more lucent the thought projects itself as the more nebulous its apprehension is rendered.

The roiling waves circumlocute as they advance. As they lap the shore they tumble over themselves to reach the shoreline. So do thoughts, jostling for primacy, strive to overrun each other, to signify a singular predominance belied by their multitudinously vertical intersections and interminglings. What reaches the turf, much like what reaches the forefront is not an indivisible filament of perception but a conglomerate of blendings and amalgamations. As the solstice irradiates the luminescent waves so do mnemonics incandesce thought processes..

Yet, in the penumbra, phosphorescent life forms burgeon and set forth their spectral presences, sometimes aglow from the pellucid white moon or in sober expostulations with the tenebrous darkness, at one with the blankness they inhabit. Perhaps the recumbent consciousness too, subsumed in thick layers of torpor allows unconscious visitations to discomfit or tired out by the cornucopia of variegated ruminations sinks into the somnambulant lethargy of deep, dark, fathomless, depthless repose.