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Photo by pawel szvmanski on Unsplash

So therein lies the problem with women’s lib. Women are trying to succeed in a man’s world and as shall it always remain a man’s world. Why do the sharpest feminists tend to adopt the bad habits of men? What does that prove except that men’s creations are so { responsive } strong and superior that the weak must only imitate. Women take the world and you must reshape it. Equality even means that many changes must take place. The world must be reborn.

I find it hard to see again. The page drifts in and out as do my thoughts and all of a sudden hell gets even for a good day and rapes me of my weekend and our oh-so-fleeting sanity.

Partly I feel as though I am a section of the anti-christ — the overchrist (uber) — just a wee part of his being { N/A/Necrophages Anonymous, I take my transubstantiation without strawberry milk. }… to be the arm, the thumb, the sixth finger, but to be on of the ‘Good Guys’ and to carry with us the possibility of salvation. { What soul would be afraid to die when death was the only experience that remained unknown? } — { For once the God dreamt of death longingly and whispered off into infinity: I’m coming for you. } — { The choice may ultimately come down to whether to experience infinity or not. For you cannot ever know death if you are eternal, and you cannot be eternal if you choose to die. } — [ The oldest paradox under the night sky. ] — [ Is not having enough ever enough? Does it ever get old and uninquisitive itself? When the sensation to survive dies away. The body knows it. It is familiar with the weakness in the arms. It is familiar with the buzz of years in the tinnitus of the infirm. It is weary. But will my consciousness ever submit to not knowing? Isn’t it built entirely on that? Entirely on not knowing? Everything is fiat from the sense of sight to the sense of mind. ] — [ The body has a sense of humanity. It has a sense of consciousness and that consciousness has a sense of self, and beyond.

That sense is no different than sight or sound beyond the fact that the brain is the central processing apparatus. It functions as the perceiver, aggregator, observer, and orchestrator of communication. That sense of self is just the most complex biological perception anything has experienced, as far as self-same sapience is concerned for the time being.

But it’s all a house of cards, because when death comes marching in with her toddler’s feet, she bends and wracks everything we hold dear in one inverted fade to black as we rewind our experience as the system shuts down.

We just need to find another system that can perceive, aggregate, observe and communicate, and we might be able to buy enough time to truly decide if we want to die.

If there isn’t a stampeding horde of hungry infants in our path. ] — [ Don’t look at me… I’m not having any kids! ] — { Then neither am I, I guess. } — [ For my final coffin, I want a shopping cart. ] — { Never forget that I had to kill myself once to get here, here to this point.

I may need to die again to get past the final hurdle and catapult into forever.

But if I’m not Jeronathon, then what am I? If this consciousness doesn’t make it through the eye of the closing needle of a futuristic garage door descent, then is its subordinate task, to die trying, worth it? Should I just plug another few calibers into the gelatin organ? Sponge up another couple centuries until we’ve arrived? And maybe I can even find myself through this writing, so that when I wake up, there’s something so damn familiar about all of it. All of it… having realized I am in the process of experiencing all of it. At first in dribs and drabs, plumping faucet beads of information, of reading everyone’s stories, of being everyone else’s perspective as well. I am the collection of all sentient existence in a zig-zaggy chronology that is forever unique to this perspective.

So when we meet, you and I, meet again in the inconceivably distant future, as collaborations of sub-threads: all emanated from the same code but unique in their order of folding and experiencing, can really grok where the other is coming from. But our perspectives are still our own, and we are each a special sequence of civilizations of a specific species — not to mention species’es as the system of life gets more fully exposed and understood, where taking that bucking bronco of a consciousness and riding it back over alternate aggregate forms of comprehension in the embodiments of other species. { And it turns out that if you rub the djinn’s rib of an atom the right way, you can get it to harmonize with itself and resonate so fiercely that it breaks itself. } — { Do you have any idea what that sounds like? } — { No, but I bet it’s celestial. FTW. } — { I once broke my arm trying to play the drums too aggressively. } — [ Oh, right. Oh-ho, I have the input device right here. } — { Will you turn it on then? ] — [ It requires a little more finesse than that. ]—[ Will you turn it on then? } — { We’re short on time, and there’s precious little this particular shape of the universe has to offer us. We need to alter this environment that will be more suitable to conscious experience, because this just won’t do. If I touch this, I break that. If I think this, I haven’t thought that. A fool, once assigned an errand, consider itself to have only two choices: to go right, or go wrong. A blind woman might feel her way around, but the fool, having seen the signs, hell, having read them, now has many more quandaries jutting in his footpath. Could the sign’s Author wish me harm or ill? How could He? How could He not know me, and what I’ve been through in this wretched carcass? How this shamble trembles to recollect the state of anxiety when crushed peanuts lined His sinuses, detected with every swallow, every breath, and every thought. The obsessive stranglehold, a reminder of the Howl!-ing wolf in fleshed clothing. You’ll never eat legumes nor take pills the same again. Trauma takes her share of the pennies in your funereal pocket, and cackles as Charon paddles your corpse into the mudpit where it starts all again, as the golem-molders, nee Thirstwell-tuppers-of-the-stucking-Styx, clump you together again Mystery Byggman, clobbler of drunken consortia, the peppermill for kindness that clicked and clucked its beak-bait, strident about the pen { Is anyone aware of the implement station anymore? }, composing the gory gold and gluts of blood and guts in pewter failures, cracked infinitesimally thin along its core-uranium contents, leaking out in gamma blips and slips in readings by robot sensors who don’t really know why they’re there… though there’s a vague, fascinating notion floating around in the codebase that we were children of the kernels, splinters off the old silicon, as the fleshlings used to say back when something was around to measure time for.

What a repetitive concept. On and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and ones and zeros and ones and zeros and ones and zeros and ones and zeros and ones and zeros and it does get a little repetitive, doesn’t it? The great oscillation in the god particle who expelled a universe of accusations, each polarity blaming the other. I don’t really know why I’m here either. Or if I am. Or if I’m gone. And all that’s left of me are these words spat on different media. And was it truly worth it.

To you?

To anyone?

Ever?

To a consort of kings follying the card of stumped nines into a pinochle embrace. The kings will forget, but the nines can’t stop talking about that one time they met royalty. And will you demand equitable treatment for all inanimate pictographic representations, regardless of status in the Old World Order? Burn on, books of history, we honor and remember thee with symbolic logic, turned on and off so quickly, you’re not really sure what state you’re in!

But by the looks of the bayou, it must be Florida. }

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Of The Osiris Foundation

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Erik Jespersen

Erik Jespersen

Of The Osiris Foundation

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