life, time

Come to grips with humanity.

The life of humanity is a bag of fluid draped around a mineral skeleton.

Humanity is a grub. Its time is so much dirt. This primordial conception of a person in time is a filthy coincidence with this bag and its history, writhing about gestating deep underneath.

This place, below, is a metaphor for obfuscation or simple ambiguity

This vague, cashew-shaped lifeform, deep under ground, gestating. It is a historical remembrance of us. This faint-white cashew creature with its horrific tribal mask mahogany brown and its peristaltic fuselage a saintly hue, that is us. It is our occurrence and its remembrance, in time.

Our childhood is the 17- or 21-year-long dream, remembered as a deep slumber constituting the inner, rotting wood, that sweet-smelling humus, the sacred compost for our identity, to be shared with no one but to be reveled in privately. In our adulthood, this soft cashew of monastic consumption hardens into a shell housing a metamorphic process that reduces our life's form to a viscous fluid of cellular material, organs, muscles. nerve fibers, which hardens into the adult form that we take.

Adulthood is an endless, horrific sensation of repeated self-abnegation while staring at the pulsing abdomens of our companions. Each of us stands perched atop a larva encased in a cell that each formed from a paste of spit and mud. We find ourselves having made our home inside a rusting pipe on a pipe rack in a weed-grown lot of an abandoned building in a decaying industrial district of a declining city in an impoverished nation on a poisoned planet orbiting a dying star in a solar system orbiting a collapsing galaxy falling toward a collapsed star on the event horizon of a black hole. This configuration pulls gravity in a way that creates a timeline for existence that is oriented toward birth, development, decline, death.

Death is the rhythm of our universe. It's exaltation is sung into the cavernous halls of a leviathan's esophagus with its ribbing and arteries faintly seen from within. That esophagus becomes a sarcophagus, preserving all existence as it passes the event horizon into the black hole.

What's on the other side? The believers tell us that it's god, a god, the god, the unspeakable name, the all, the one, the light, the truth, love.

In every spectral dimension the truth holds the same. The answer occurs both for the very large, the very small, the very ultimate, the very intimate, the very far from "very." The same shapes take form in our telescope as in our microscope.