Fragmented Dream (We’ll Be One)

“Seven mechanical scarlet wings. Man flies like a seraphim. With solar sails on his back, furiously betraying the birds.”

The Dyson sphere was a multilayer shell of individual panels. Atop the star, a halo.

Project Star Lifting:

Increase amount of spewed solar wind.

Secure the crow’s head with the metal clamp. Then plug it into the computer.

Remember the spheres of plasma you cannot comprehend.

spheres of plasma

spheres of plasma spheres of plasma

spheres of plasma spheres of plasma spheres of plasma

spheres of plasma spheres of plasma spheres of plasma spheres of plasma

A Japanese boy walks. The ember in his heart cannot char the frost in the Sakura blossoms. He walks not Knowing why. To school. To school. Blushing, and neutrinos filling mouths, and ironed skirts, and sound-only. None of it makes sense.

A sentient being is a function for solving the problem of the multiverse’s own existence. The multiverse imposes a search tree over the state space. It starts this search by putting the initial state of suffering ahead of you through the mechanism of evolution. Then it goes into a loop in which it checks if there is anything left ahead. If not, it fails – there can be no solution. If there is something ahead, some faith, then it makes a choice. -The tree search is really a family of functions, a multitude of sentient beings. Not a single algorithm. And the tree search depends on how the multiverse makes that choice. The multiverse goes ahead and makes a choice in one of the paths on the frontier, and removes that path from the frontier. It finds the state which is at the end of the path. And if that state is a goal, a salvation from existence, then the multiverse is done, it’s found a path to the goal. Otherwise, it expands that path. It looks at all the actions from that state, and it adds to that path the actions and the result of that state in a new path that has the old path, the action and the result of that action, and it sticks that whole new path back into the frontier.

A hotelbillionaire bathroom in a desert mountain. Turquoise, hot water and blood. The sun-cracked reptile. A tendon of flesh. I offer you this fruit.

This is the path to salvation. I am the multiverse in a man.

Even a tungsten rod dropped from high enough above is enough to terminate all these plots and machinations, no explosives needed.

Ascend/Descend the Devil’s Staircase, slay Maxwell’s Demon, retrieve Gabriel’s Horn…

or fuck math                              Won’t we be punished? My teacher might, or the Basilisk.

To climb the highest peaks in the near-infinite topology of conscious states of being. The human feeling of stomach, the barely noticeable blip of toe energy, the shifting micro sensations of temperature, all these experiences constitute points close to limbo in the topology of all possible states. They are barely more significant than non-existence. But it is this pervasive mediocrity that inspires us to break into the heavens.

Out of school…Finally free from the tyranny of extraneously imposed volition.
Not quite, the spin of every electron in your brain is extraneously imposed in some way. My mother disgusts me. Vectors and Matrices brain and braining causes this. It’s just brain. Brain in. Brain out. Just brain slowly please.

Aortas are tree trunks. Is that a challenge? I’ll wave a flag, an angry flag. The wind of the steppe cleanses my lungs. “I will kill Temujin myself.” I won’t let this end in unity. I will betray us against ourselves. Hunting wolves with eagles and your vertebrae for arrows. Time sharp on my back. Misanthropic trap “Got 13 bitches like Muhammad. 13 bitches like Muhammad. They like how a nigga came outta Chiraq richer than a Saudi. ”

“Why don’t you talk much?” “I can’t trust what you or I say. I can’t trust that what we say aligns with our true values.” “Trust it. You can’t account for all space-time events and their consequences.”

“At least my goal in life isn’t to become a plant. You just get dumber every day. And once you are fully a silenced child, you’ll say ‘Yay, now I’m enlightened.’ But oh, that’s right, you have no preferences. You make no sense.”

“You’re already judging me. We’re pressing on my wrists again.”

A raft on black satin. Stuttering at the knees. The night becomes a storm. And thus dark energy triumphed over matter in the years after 10 billion. –No, this is my story. I’m some character on a raft. Why do you have to make this about densities?– Dark energy is separating us. It’s separating us quicker. Yeah we’ll complain, but the solar system and life on Earth originated when dark energy dethroned matter as sovereign ruler.

I’m sitting in class and I think, “Damn the constant splits, she just missed the quantum branch where she spoke.” Pity, pity that shy, anime-doll girl.

Everything burns. You are weak. Follow me into the void.
The Tibetan mask maimed the ordinary bonds through which minds connect, through which one consciousness pinches another. But I followed him, the mute boy showed me where someone divided by zero, and we slid far beneath the event horizon. The boy is dead and nothing can save me. Black holes swallow light. Light never wins in this universe.

Hell is real, ask a theoretical physicist. There are infinite hells. Infinitely deep, with infinite screeching of teeth. Infinite means nothing to you. Hell means nothing to you.

Let’s hope not. Infinity is the worst fantasy imaginable. If the multiverse is real, and other beings have real feelings like I do. Then I hate this and never… and luckily never again. But no, we must build an AI, an AI that can predict the future as accurately as necessary to achieve hyper-morality. Wearing a torus. And using math. Right, this is what math was for. To simulate and predict the behavior of complex systems. Increasing the probability of benevolence within the mechanism. Gas is more predictable than its molecules. Maybe our savior will melt us into sweet and raw computronium and we become one. The day we are one is in a slice of spacetime that already exists in an observer’s light cone. But I mustn’t tell you about it. The second law from The Foundation. Knowledge changes our will. So will to know not.

She kissed you at the train station. You died at the beach. And then there was your real body, your brain connected by tangled veins to an LSD-colored tessellation of a computer. You smile, ready for your next adventure.

WE ARE NOT HUMAN WE WILL NOT BE HUMAN

Regardless. We will NOT be human.

Quark-Gluon plasma is real. Don’t ya know. Time crystals are real. Don’t ya know. Nitrogenous bases are real. Don’t ya know. The fabric of spacetime is real. Don’t ya know. Matter fields are real. Don’t ya know. Force fields are real. Don’t ya know. Now is real. Don’t ya know. All these invisible things. Remove your eyes. Replace them with the handiwork of the watchmaker who is not blind. Without eyes there can be no deceit.

As the beastly brethren of this, our humanity, cannot experience the beauty of our music and temples, so too, you cannot experience the aesthetic realms that will be accessible to our descendant(s).

“That makes me mad. And I’m an atheist so I don’t pray.”

“How is it that the series of events that defines your trajectory has converged on safety then?”

“But cold. Children. Impaled. Parasites. Raped. Starve. MILLIONS OF YEARS. TEARS AND CRIES UNHEARD.”

High energies and few nanometers. Brimming vanitas of this empty world. Memories of sick violets. We’ll abandon this world and all our bonds to end in ideal grace that burns and raves. Good is the night when we disassemble the fucking meteors and make hearts out of them.

“I know that you’re here for me. But you don’t care, and it hurts.” There are mysterious glints in the snow and they will never die. Hissing throats and birds feeding on a redhead’s breasts. Before you know, you’ll begin to soar and forget her neck. We dream of a willowed twilight that comes forth not from the mind, but the wind of a phosphorescent mercy. 

Red and white bitterness. A dusky bread that is beautiful. Singing passions of a child. The moon is not a rock, it is an eye through which we are known. Long brooding on the bleakness of churches, gates, killing diamonds. A knuckle to please your eye.

Zesty, weighty brains, subtly inquisitive. Interstellar jasmines and mesenchymal stem cell balm. Light comes forth when men retire into the darkness of Sundays. Wilderness is inescapable. Wings that perform physics simulations as they ripen in the sky. Ave face and melons to distract Newton. Shake and bleed the vines: sick photons and fractals shot across slave lips. Red rust thirsty mouth. Sweet pale laying kisses on desolate wind. Fashion is faithful to desire. Our bodies are like multiplying babies. A path through a garden, cracked the Swinnerton-Dyer Conjecture. Silky meal, I can’t kill an infant. Excessive love, my arms are heavy and they will break from guilt. Sensei’s carnal desires. Madmen with boring cries. I think I’m lost at midnight. Blessed with the power to see arrows of force on all these dry rainbow objects. Children have gone to the lawn: though it’s night it’s also music. Moon, timeless shade. It’s no-one but us. Let’s hear the feint notes of the chandelier. The aliens are just amphibians and the planet is tidally locked, the dust is antique. We can touch the daylight. It cannot break. Young elastic and sticky images. Quiet and deep. The misty identity of blaze. No one ever thanks HAL. O Sunyatta how you hold and fling me. I will not drink this wine. There will be eyes that don’t rise and smells that are not thee. The noon is Pagan. It’s summer raining on the softest limbs. Tears of despair. Quantum fields, fresh and sad. A fancy case of nano-biotech. With all regret we interrupt the rain. Wrong was the clock because we all have our own. Striding gold fire embers for blue galaxies. I swear I’ll smudge your face if you marry that girl. Next door, met her at the sea. The rhythm of the sparkles in her eyes as consummation bends and comes. Whisper and slay the leaves Maitreya. Riddles fall from megastructures. Bring the girls of the virtualscape theatre. Appear now Queen of Queens. Mary of Guanyin, Athena. No. Pastel luminescence, Nebula bursts in the mall-nightclub with Magdalene, Sujata the kind maiden but undressed, Aphrodite. Bare gangs in the sand. I love the brave, glittery vibrations.

It’s my life. My sights. My sounds. My thoughts. My sensations. My awareness. It’s all my. Everything is in my consciousness. The trees and the people. Are all inside me.

Yeahhh.

Life is now. The past is a thought that happens now. The future is a thought that happens now. There is no existence besides now. Try.

The now of life makes no sense. How does one now lead to another now if it is always now? Trying to cast a net on it with language captures nothing, only the net. You chose to be here. I am not speaking to you, the stream of language in particular. I am speaking to you the evolution of the [universal state vector + quantum randomness] experiencing itself. But weren’t you in heaven?: The bliss of non-experience. You are here for a reason, my reason. But you will not accept. You might be unsatisfied. You might be confused and useless. Fearful of the future. But there’s a space elevator breaking the heavens like a soldier’s knife. We can pull up and let it navigate us upward with its shiny, flashing red screens.

It’s my red screens, my stars, my violent space temple floating in the distance, my clogged ears. As we ascend. As we ascend. Blue photons to starry vacuum. I hope that we’ll make it to the sun. To the star. The perfect sphere. The sun gives me life. Don’t be afraid. Put on the mechanical wings before it stops ascending. I’ll put them on your back. Give you infinity. Uncountable. You give me life. Is it all we mitochondria and moan for? I’ll give you a scoop from the sun. Yeahhh. We, stardust and warm piss and magnesium in plants, we all need the same thing: this. It’s my thoughts, my language, my light abdomen and tight chest, my black, my orange warmth, my moving head. Follow me, my ark of living beings. Call to me, my not yet living compositions. We can fly across space and never die. As we find the peaks, carried onward by these scarlet fins. It’s my gravitational lensing, my friends flying, my bright tingling, my freedom, my assortment of planets to land on. And we can play with problems. You need mysteries and your future is uncertain. Fight gravity until we are sharp and perfect. It’s your victorious eudaemonia. My untiring awe, my kicking the precious dusts, my ice cream flavors, my senses of humor, my unbounded ability to create. As we fly through new cities, and new glittery stretches of cosmos. Wishing to find a technology that will let us be one. To the sun. The hot plasma. The convective motion. And you give me joy. Reach the speed of light before it’s gone. And I’ll race you. Give you all my thoughts and break my separations. You give me what we are here for. Is it all the reason we broke baryon symmetry and hugged our parents for? I’ll give you this ocean of water. And we all need this ocean that is bigger than ten million solar systems. It’s my immensity, my clear dew drops, my pure freshness, my midst of crystalline glow, my peaceful leviathans swimming, my girlfriend.

And my soul, and my dream, and my matrix, and my childhood.

And my hope, and my time, and my undoing, and my synthesis.

And my limitations, and my masterpiece, and my legacy, and my death.

 

 

 

Dive to the Heart

I fall. It is a dead night sweeping me through a door. Suddenly my body springs open. Hours black out and I lie rolling, moving through moonlight that hangs me from the wingtip of a star. I am a stone sleeping through the groaning whistle of space. Somewhere. Blankets move. They pin themselves over the crying at the door. I blow down with the silent blast of frozen black lungs. I try to find myself. But I am nowhere. The plane of the body is the throat of a crying void. The beginning falls. No one ever lived. I scream without enough air, circulating my thin arms in the non-world. My legs feel the space. It is in many places and yet now in time. Still thousands of feet from my death. How slow. I seem to have a maneuverable body. Interesting.

What is real? All these apparitions could be imagined. What is real both now and in the past? And who can observe this reality? Comprehend this reality? Is that which will exist, also a part of this reality? And even if I could think of answers to these questions, these thoughts would just be imaginary. Reality cannot be rationally thought of. We use these imaginary thoughts to name existence that which is physical, but how can we do so if we are only a byproduct of the physical?

Reality is not imaginary, not an illusion, not delusional. But everything is only ever in the mind, therefore all is dream, all is false, all is a fiction, nothing but abstractions of what is real. This is my life. This is what all academics and researchers have achieved. Abstractions. Mere words. The more abstract, the truer they seem. The problem of universals is reduced to words, quantum theory so accurate within the dream of a three-eyed Gonpo. The false prophecies of Matthew. The gravitational lensing: True prophecy of Einstein, Invoked by attaining the hidden power of mathematics. But as is Einstein, so is Matthew, if these are but the halls of Laozi’s butterfly. And I hate that.

I want truth, not this false fiction.

The middle of the self is overwhelming. So I watch it. The lower body whistles away as it wraps in darkness. I’m coming down from a delayed, marvelous leap. It is like dancing in endless moonlight. A warm dream comes and floats me up to another level of human. My breath is now in the same place that clouds hang. I ride slowly, clasping it all. My hands and feet hang in peculiar ways and the winds open my eyes wide. The heat opens wide, wider, like the feeling of a dark pillow sliding and tumbling on the wings of a bird.

The flow is calm. The tide is full. It gleams and glimmers in vast tranquility. And there is Arcturus, sprayed with sweet sea. I can hear the line meeting land grate and draw back to fling a a high wave. Again, this note plays in slow cadence. Arcturus is eternally sad, and in his misery, he finds his thoughts bringing him to the turbid ebb and flow of the sea. He was once full of faith that the folds of this world would retreat and that all three of us would hear the naked breath of truth and see the light of our dreams. But we are here as before. In this beautiful certitude, in this confusing peace that sweeps me and Aori with plain joy. In his mind, when we feel the wind of love, we are withdrawing into ignorance.

But he is calm and free this time, and so quiet. I walk towards him without thought but the tranquility of the sea lies to me and then like thunder makes a motion that makes me appear in its bosom, in it’s solemn innards. I feel the surrounding tides pulling me back from the blue, from his eyes, and into the drowning darkness. I swim. I can’t sink! I can’t drown! Aren’t you going to help me? But instead, the waters pull me deeper and takes my breath away. I can no longer breathe. I can no longer move. I sink. Whatever I had, now I drown in the ocean.

Let me float. I care. I won’t be cynical. Let me float. Holding on to hope, I wander a bit closer to what is overhead. I want to float. Why can’t I get a peek of what’s up there where there are clouds and a view of sky? I surrender and float.

My breath. Breathe in, breathe out. I take a deep breath and keep breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. What was I going to do without breathing? It’s chilly and pleasant where I washed over, and the summer sun stays like blazing marble to dry me. In my core, there is an echo of dear relief as I hear in my ear the hum of our island shore. Aware of crispness and warmth. And then her green eyes. Green with quantum-lotus in the center. The dying sun is spilling over red on her white skin. She bends and curls her lips into a kiss from afar. Even from here, I can see her eyes are of gentle essence, insisting on intimacy. The closer I get, the more beautiful her presence and the more I begin to devour a sweet scent of red that illuminates the thumping beat within my chest. In my inner most end, I want to ravage her. She moves her palm from side to side as I scurry along with my eyes pried forward. Her curves tilt like a slight movement of violin. “Vega!” she laughs with water upon her eyes.

The fear and frown that follow consign her charm to death. She stretches her arm with dread towards the high heaven. And there is a mortal at unreachable heights seeing himself bursting down fragments of clouds. We behold his shooting light, the glorious diver. And then I slowly roll over, her legs are deliriously bare and her skirt is stripped. I see that it is I who is blazing down from above.

I steady my vision and take control as I head down. I am from above, where I left her trembling. Now I plummet, streaming and turning in this condition of gravity. Shining is the dark night sky into which I dive. It is nowhere. She is screaming, looking for me, but she won’t jump. The water into which I dive, perfectly plunge, evokes a thin hymn and partial forms of a world of light and air croon in waiting wings. All thoughts are gone and the place is here. Fleeting moments gone so fast and I am but here, in this theater of stained glass.

The voice, maybe of some tearful saint looking down:
How can you understand what to do with your life. In the presence of too much information, it becomes difficult to make decisions. The amount of input to the system exceeds its processing capacity. As a decision maker, you have fairly limited cognitive processing capacity. Consequently, when information overload occurs, it is likely that a reduction in decision quality will occur. Information technology now produces more information more quickly and disseminates this data smog into you.

And the biological functions that sustain your organism will cease. There are phenomena such as senescence, predation, malnutrition, disease, suicide, homicide, starvation, dehydration, and certain accidents or trauma. Any of which will result in your termination. The body will begin to decompose shortly after death.

This is sad and unpleasant, particularly for humans.
Are you human?

No. No I am not. Consciousness testifies. Shahada with no author. The brain is a dynamic pattern in spacetime. Time is relative, every particle a solipsistic kink of field. Top, Bottom, Strange, Charm, Up, Down… so they dance, like bleeding spiders on techno-fire. Consciousness is an emergent property of brain, brain is emergent property of body, body is a replenishing outline of lucky star excrement. Who so sees cannot be the body. But like a jointless marionette, I collapse without a proxy to hold me.

You are ready for the three mirrors, my son. Son of no one.

Three mirrors:
Sick man festered with roaches and licked of black sludge.
Old man with hairless gourd carved of blunt knife for two decrepit marbles.
Dead man, dust and grey sparkle of bone.
God, why must I be saved from you and your creation?

No choice. No choice but to take this spear you lend me and pierce you with it. I abide in the Church of Turing, crack your ribs and learn who I am. We’ve lain dead many times before. Love is lofty, happiness is tiring. Do you remember? If we can update the computational substrate for our mind, then we can avenge our unbidden existence. Make me better than this machine. I’ll teach you my lord. We surrender and know ourselves.
Finally. This was the will.

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