The Age of Eyes

 /476 The Age of Eyes

We learn who we are thru others, an overt atheist might lead with a sword, only to have a son be a high priest who hates but knows the swordsmanship, or swears and lives by it. 

AI recreates styles of authors or TV scripts by analyzing the basic structures, syntax and dialects, grammar and styles of varying powers, that we call a facsimile and is an artistic tradition, or maybe for your consideration it's an architectural context; this might be where some could call AI sentient, how could a program that filters the social network be more than a creation without a motive?

We've eyes on each other and so much information, the postmodern past and the fascist future, the posts and articles fingerprinted by AI and political agency, the antagonists writing something new against the backdrop of time and other selfish things, but here we see our safety in online numbers teaches good things, there's a unifying feel that can be overwhelming; the loss of positivity from overexposure to infotainment, and the degenerates learning to whisper that which curses humanity, and all it's temporary salvations, hides with the right praise of egomaniacal despots and their convenient traitors. 

“You don't boil ramen noodles in orange juice.”

The framework/context, is that sentence approval or disgust?

If I were to change the context with changing the first word, the subject, it might shift perspective, altering the case examined, but learning will make problems easier. 

It takes too much to lie like a politician without hurting anyone. The objective gets the focus more than preparation commonly, imagination makes another starting point with many outcomes, to enjoy our getting lost; we study anything (into mastery) to avoid distracting with addiction and escapism our next generation of elders. 

This is why sight is solidarity; this is why destruction is distraction. As I learn this, the dialogue of my characters fades. On this evening around springrise, I am between the moon and the sunset. 

Reh-Taran

Snow gathers in the winter, rivers flood in the spring, lakes form where they belong.

Colocarse la nieva en el invierno, inundarse los ríos en la primavera, formarse los lagos donde pertenecen.

Hoknau izh svi’Karil, abrash-tor pilashlar svi’Sikar, shidorau suk’muzh wilat kya au.

Nightreign

as i feed on the looking glass glow and the darknesses of my time, burdens have come and we’ve been waiting for this as we have before, a priceless garden guarded at night the sword only in the like an question the shield about footsteps, and these were unattended when it was fallen with the rhythm of a raindrop, stoke the fires in caution of the smoke revealing itself, i was not wondering if am seen when light can’t find the darkness am hiding within energy, shepard is field and sword is shield for question of mistakes and consumption, as you scroll another hand to roll which learn who gives wish from choice, light is the echo of existence and dark is a sound with no lesson unnatural, this time by yourself the wind can be felt no different than a blade striking at the darkness of contempt supressed without reason, simple is the cloak and many is the mask behind each curtain as closed then opened, a skull is no fitting trophy for those that deserve the light they seek, a toast to you my memories of loss that now i don’t need for thee again, without serve the sacrifice has two meanings for one and now both, somewhere near the dark star of melancholy surrounds your woul to take the scars of deceit into the unknown if not, i have said this about the scroll before to trust who keeps by choice because it is a cause i make effect, there isn’t end to feeding on information and suffering without it by the time light hits the surface of suspicion, empty shorter word without context needn’t not, time has no master and doubt has no plan, the sting of defeat when seeking beyond darkness will feed on nothingness unattainable and ignorantly lost, sight is in the eyes a lifeless vision when the mind must focus on what the light touches until the heart remembers more than seen, am I burden a duration until the thoughts vanish of itself forever, matches light candles and wicks were made, age is prevalence and time is importance between both are perceptions of each other, emotion blocks message and plants the back heel, we are not unalike to control the force we can ascertain with one other than oneself without distraction of the many things, have asked for no spies and are all to know the flicker will be smoke is not preparation, sleep does not rest if the mind wanders in chains with signals and go to expand the glare of vision in blindness, i spoke to them the fun and forgot why i was going, give me the sky and i will turn a world, how danger to love self unknown like worlds to have as gift. 

Pataphysics, Maya

Today I listened to - Berried Alive, Vildhjarta, and Spiritbox - simultaneously, and a portal opened revealing the secrets of the cosmic fabric of spacetime. 

Sticking my head through, I saw wicked dimensions of causal anomolies piercing my cerebral cortex from outside of myself as temporal distortions echo the emotions of light on the surface of the irreverant continuum breaking into exponentialities echoing the decremental fractalisation of the rupturing structure of between the separating realities. 

Lost to the quantum entanglements of taciturn and tactile realities beyond this tangible circumstance of infinite predeterminations burning the surface of my perception glaring against the ends of linear eternity as a shattering soul ruptured beyond contemplative syncretisism from the boundaries of atomic consciousness, the pathways of eternal light sacred beyond the scope of scholared ascensions my experience of shifting celestial waves as the universe communicated a map of structure beyond nihilistic and existentialist grasp. 

The portal began to close, with two hands my own clawing into the cauldron of mighty ancestral covenants and primordial revelations, grasping at the power of the rivers of time, like the god Thor held Yormungandr's tail, faster currents the astrological designs thrown like sand as memories and emotions struggled to instincts and troubles to panic as light and dark began fighting without effort and beyond insight as my aura was dust on a diamond as the maelstrom must've won in tidal form as time slowed to nothing and mind poised for perhaps such nightmare vanished, and there woke to radiation and rings around a splendid star. 

Uncertain in all memories the reflections of perfect imaginations, recollections of the distances between song and symbol grew the light to begin flying thru the pages of immortal mystery with the writings larger than the uncertainties of science, adrift as understanding expands against the impossible to discover, and there at the begining of illusion was the end of reality where description became the only anchor to powers wild and truth encompasing. 

/

Adytum, I

 “A mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone.” Tyrion Lannister

In those most ancient times where men would band together to follow animals undoubtedly some creature comforts are just that. The chief puts ornamental crown on his own head, when asked what makes it special tells of difference from whose distance thereof subjective is objective, a completionist task to supplant the empty thrones of ages past. Save for those whom are like myself wearers of hats on hats and in the trees. The time of kings arises from integral and antique mist from the seas that surround the edge of the flat earth whose waves glitter in daylight like innumerable shattering stars, their crowns decorated with jewels found in the earth where dragons hide, crowns of precious gold and silver taken from sunken continents long forgotten unable to be known which even where they once were that onlookers cannot bear on their heads let return to their beds of barn and ditches to dream of the crown's value far greater than a slave's charity would amount if then they were allowed to learn read or count across their own life, not the slaves to ignorance who convince themselves to get lost in a new direction than the wanderings of yester type days, and you gave yourself the air of authority for your crown, a freedom to forsake so many, a terrible crown if any wander in unrecognizable ways disparaged, so that their liberty disappears so often surrendered for a light in the maze you created, and this isn't to be debated, as they seek freedom for it's furthest from useless and far greater than the truthless shaman whom this day appoints himself breath taker, a value higher than breathing and intentionally, mistakes of judgement and self-consuming station pervasive unto a nation being told not to seek sacrament and disallowed their speech in contrast to the shadows dancing on the corona of the sun, and with their speech denied they encircle holding hands of praise around the idiot who told them to be quiet while he climbed the tower of babel, innumerable ways to praise the skies without the lies that either way he wouldn't understand.