(( INTRO TO THE BREEZE ))
For those who take this venture and find it initially exhausting and unwelcoming, please know that is okay, if not entirely expected. This work is not meant to be read like a book. Perhaps, if anything, one might compare it more readily to a painting. The first glance will leave an impression, surely. Yet far from have will one a coherent grasping of the whole, in its whole, for what it is. No, for with art such as this, one must glance, let it seep into their brain, then glance again, deriving layer upon layer of reward through each endeavor. Yes — this book is meant to be peeled, peeled as far back as comprehensively possible, back and all the way to its core (if you are able to find it). And the challenge for the reader, if have one any inclination to accept: Deduce, Infer, and Discern the deepest layer of this book upon which to rest a true understanding of its nature.
This work is blatantly dense, I know that, and I am sorry. However, this again is a careful stylistic choice; rest assured that no obscurities are presented within these Notes except for those which serve a deeply intentional purpose.
Lastly, and regrettably, if one has not already inferred by now:
These Notes are intended to be read 2wice; if not 4our times.
•
PART 1
CHAPTER 1 – THE PARACOSM
I/(LA)
The waking dream state. It really is so strange… A daily occurrence, for each of us, that transitory slip between the impossible and the material. Then back into the impossible, every single night. Sometimes, my ephemeral glimpses between these states will feel surreal – no, hyper-real — almost as though my lulled observation briefly catches a trace of their underlying mechanistic puppet-strings. It’s strange, it’s suspicious, those things are undeniable. But what’s even stranger to me are the slivers of feeling within those moments of transition where one glimpses a truly dark landscape of haunting viscerality. Shades of experience, emotion – known in totality – and with far greater lucidity than the temporal haze I’m pulled back into upon my awakening. Fright, desolation, absurdity; the ones occurring most frequently. Any ‘awe’ to be directly overshadowed by (shadow) itself, and the sheer immensity of whatever place is being teased in those moments. And now, lately… malice. Every morning, flashes of malice; maximally realized, fully envisioned configurations of the thing which no one should ever have to see nor understand. But, awareness is a strange thing. It can’t always be so neatly “traded away” for that invaluable, truly blissful ignorance. Still, the mind possesses some intriguing and inexplicable ways to deal with pressures such as these, especially when the actively conscious individual has proven (him/her)self incapable of doing so. And me, thankfully… when confronted with this malice, at least I have my ritual, and I know where I must go. And so I will.
WE
It was a windy day… almost suspiciously windy, enough to betray what otherwise might have been a beautiful fall morning. This Friday morning was so gusty, in fact, at one moment a turbulent projectile crept through the grated screen of a partially-open window, forcing itself inward and against the handle of a broomstick leaning innocently against Isaiah’s desk. This sequence effortlessly pushed the broomstick back & into an array of smaller objects lying across the right side of the desk, consequently knocking them to the ground. Abruptly startled by this commotion, Isaiah looked down at his fallen broomstick, observing the sprawling of its victims and immediately deducing the chain of causation having preceded the incident. I’ll… pick that stuff up later… He sighed, then turned back to his work. Externalities...
There is one solace, at least, for the sort of mind plagued by neurosis; as was our protagonist’s. Not to suggest such a solace is ultimately “good” nor “bad”, productive or unproductive, but rather, that it is simply that: a solace, a raft of alleviation within an otherwise volatile & unforgiving mindscape. These descriptions convey entirely the internal environment of Isaiah, a man like all the rest; however a true slave to his paracosms. Ironically, he exists perpetually as both a creator and a cocoon, weaving intricately and then dissolving between his artificially projected worlds, switching roles whenever one or the other becomes too unbearable. But… (too many details), all this is simply to describe the visionary ritual of escape and primary addiction having characterized our subject of observation.
And now, he was working. Playing with his spreadsheets in preservation of some stagnant ambition as a ‘data analyst’. These were the slowest hours of the day, for Isaiah, and unfortunately, the day had just started. He looked around his room, at the floor; his literary clutter was in need of consolidation yet again. Thankfully, it was Friday, and tonight he should parse through and fully recompile his collection of books, as faithfully as he did every Friday night. Here, we may observe the first of Isaiah’s many ritualistic anchors.
Let us speak for a moment on this name, Isaiah. As is inevitable with any 3-syllable first name, his acquaintances and families from the outset of his youth bestowed him with “Ise” (pronounced ‘Ice’) as the official nickname — predictably, in an effort to save everyone a bit of time in the long run; this by predisposing of all future redundancy, all unnecessary syllables, otherwise having been amassed in heaps and heaps over years and years, turning milliseconds into seconds and perhaps even (in the most strict and religious cases of the employment of ‘nicknames’), one may save themselves several minutes of time altogether; which, otherwise might have been helplessly resigned to that frightful responsibility of enduring a raw, unwavering pronunciation of another’s whole birthname.
Isaiah knew well the tongue and slang of man, but his mind spoke to him in the language of recursion.
Anyways, let us understand of our protagonist that he is in his ripe age of 24; we should also understand that which is his unspectacular way of life, entrenched in a modest, prosaic apartment residence, burrowed against the near-distant backdrop of one’s typically monotonous cityscape. This apartment building, in honesty, may as well have been described as the entirety of the world for Isaiah (statistically, at least), who, by “fortune” of sustaining an online, cloud-based career, was rarely ever presented with the necessity to step outside.
Everything he needed, as far as he could estimate such things, had been accounted for on multiple levels of anticipation. Household essentials; those were easy, he could buy in bulk according to his expected length & frequency of usage. In quickly ‘touring’ our protagonist’s apartment, we may observe various cues suggesting this to be the case (specifically, inside his storage closet); dozens of rolls of paper towels (perhaps over 100), 24 cases (yes cases, not bottles per case) of plastic water bottles, 2 portable industrial power generators, at least 10 lbs’ worth of coffee beans, (a Glock), and many more, carefully considered stockings.
(Note: before exiting this storage unit, one may catch a brief glimpse in the corner, behind the closing door, of a stack — multiple stacks — of sketches, canvases, each suggesting a slightly chaotic, if not troubling expression of creative ability. Conceptual geometries; almost all of them, if one were forced in some capacity to try and classify these works. Still, a couple of frames stood out as much more refined, cohesive, arguably beautiful. These frames — if only 3 or 4 of them in total were visible from that massive stack — were nothing more than flowers; vivid, intimate, and alchemized with an appreciable depth & color. These paintings appeared a stark contrast to the relatively monolithic style characterizing the rest of Isaiah’s observably questionable efforts.)
Now, the only real factor of urgency when planning out this pre-emptive storaging of Isaiah’s consumables was perishability; and so, this was the primary axis under which he tracked and classified his system of essential goods. Nothing was ever to expire; first in first out, the cyclical key to perishable longevity. Yes, in a way, Isaiah’s maladjusted existence might have been considered almost perfectly efficient.
Sure, there were errands to run, occasional extracurriculars to engage in. But, as Isaiah discovered fairly early in life — and aided by the mainstays of technological convenience — even those necessities could be mitigated simply by employing the services designed for that very purpose; So, the system he has currently managed relies almost entirely on delivered groceries & essentials; he holds strictly virtual meetings and appointments, and operates most of the infrastructure within his organized life solely through utilization of his (Windows Envy) desktop computer. Each of these, along with a respectably amassed personal library of books, has essentially dragged forward Isaiah’s “vision” while allowing him to maintain an almost entirely sedentary state.
This may not surprise us, as we observe our protagonist sitting in his chair, desperately clicking away at those spreadsheets which are his self-referential prison. In his chair, before his lengthy desk; yes, this assuredly humble 5’ x 7’ slice of physically defined spacetime may be aptly analogized to a basin; a material reflection of Isaiah’s executive-capacity function in its wholeness and entirety.
Whoa.
For a second, Isaiah thought he may have caught a brief glimpse of fluttering blue, just barely in his peripheral, and just for a moment – as a subtle glist of color danced across his window pane.
“That’s quite the butterfly.”
Regardless, these overall visionary prospects did not necessarily perturb him, Isaiah was glad to resign himself solely to the rudimentary, to social isolation. Despite a rather unique ability to fascinate – perhaps even ‘charm’ (or confuse (& frighten)) – people (to the extent he interacted with them at all), he ultimately gave little thought to those things of tribe and status. For all and everything he cared about, the only source of comfort and beauty around him, was relegated strictly to the realm of the cerebral. The mind was a more perfect place for Isaiah, even if he still could not control its storms (trust us, there are many storms). Storms run in the family, after all. This genetic reality might explain some of Isaiah’s more debilitating intellectual tendencies; indeed, a spattered lineage of depression, psychosis, schizophrenia, bipolar/dissociative disorders of the like; even a couple of recorded suicides (per the last few documented generations).
Yes — There were many plagues, many evolutionary parasites leeching on this family tree; but at least the knowledge of this fact gave I some token of closure around the mystery that was his restless, hyper-neurotic condition. He takes medication for these things, after all (zyprexa/olanzapine); three times daily and religiously for (how many?) years of his life… since a teenager, anyway. Still, Isaiah did not fully adhere to the idea of medicinal (psychiatric) labeling; he’d been given many labels throughout his life, yet none of them seemed to result in anything remotely close to productive nor beneficial. And they certainly didn’t assist him in his search for the axiom of all axioms.
Regarding Isaiah’s medication, we might typically observe his medicinal container of pills as it was permanently stationed in a rather open and vulnerable position near the right hand corner of his desk. There, it effectively served as a reminder, blatant and safely-anchored given the frequency with which he spread his awareness over that general area of his desk on a daily, if not hourly (minutely) basis. Staying on a regiment for dosages was simple; Isaiah was a man of acute ritual, and so he had systems for everything of import. Now, it’s presumably been years since he’s missed a dosage–
…
…(thanks to his effectively desk-ridden disposition); although at this point, he’d likely venture to assume that his brain had structurally (effectively) adopted the medication’s neurochemical structure, or something like that; thus bearing little consequence if such a lapse were ever to occur (though to reiterate, this would purely be his speculation).
Further observing Isaiah’s office (which was technically (legally) designated as the unit bedroom), we might see a number of similar ritual mechanisms having been established and sustained over the years. Many of these systems were similar to the pills regarding their utility, in that they were designed for and oriented explicitly around that anticipated stream of linear awareness; the homeostatic, undulating flow of cue and impulse.
Take the water bottle — simple and worn, but no less effective than on the day it was purchased. The vessel could typically be observed within Isaiah’s field of view at any given moment, loyally steadfast in maintaining his hydration. Isaiah’s reliance on these established cues was so significant, for example, that if this bottle were say, by some tragic happenstance to be misplaced in any capacity, he likely would not even notice until having experienced the more-intense symptoms of acute dehydration. Then perhaps — but only then — might he realize it would be prudent to break into the emergency stash.
It is the same with his books (and his art). Stacks, scattered everywhere, no rhyme nor reason to their placement, only kinesthetic (proprioceptive) impulse. Piles of books, structures of distilled experience, each idly serving an innately recognized esthetic purpose. Though, Isaiah could not state this purpose if prompted to do so, hence its recognized innateness. Stack after stack, seemingly chaotic but truthfully in perfect order, each of them situated exactly where they needed to be as far as he was concerned. The floor, the bed, the shelves… books were everywhere, on every surface; symbolic tributes of awareness, each one a pin in the web of perspective compounding incessantly within Isaiah’s mind.
Still, he was no academic; merely a hobbyist. A flailing autodictat obsessed with widening that precariously fragile ‘scope of awareness.’ No specialized knowledge, no technical investigation into anything in particular. Just a fleeting race around the poles of literary breadth, pursued by his (own) immutable adversarialism. History, psychology, math, linguistics, philosophy… ontology & epistemology, most recently. He’s dabbled in the scriptures, even; Eastern and Western alike. He certainly wasn’t a traditionalist, but still, he’d be inclined to admit there’s often striking potency expressed across certain myths and religious stories. The book of Job, for example, Isaiah found to be particularly fascinating.
We should admit, as well — Isaiah’s mind was much more stable than it had been in his earlier years. Those years were volatile, for certain; but awareness, ‘maturity,’ & devout ritual mechanisms effectively helped ground Isaiah as he ‘progressed’ through life. Speaking of ritual — now that we notice it, that so-called ‘permanently’ stationed container just previously mentioned was no longer to be observed in its standardly designated location; it had been displaced. And so, in a moment of great narrative irony, and with otherwise incredible rarity, one of Isaiah’s obsessive systems had been (externally) disrupted. We say ‘rarely’ because Isaiah rarely allowed for any meaningful influence over his systems (from the external), to the degree he could help it. And by “obsessive systems,” we are referring to the library of organization and ritual he has methodically constructed in order to more easily contend with the wildly chaotic external through means of a highly structured internal.
That was the essence of his room, after all. The office (/bedroom) was one of the only physically defined spaces over which Isaiah held actual control. And so, this was the control he exercised, and we can confidently say that every interior design choice presently expressed within that room may be attributed as serving a multi-faceted functional purpose. Every furnishing, every surface, undoubtedly had been (maximally) analyzed to express an optimal (interfacial) configuration. His tools, utensils, appliances — the desk, the nightstand, the shelving; the placement of each (as well as their respective contents), in perfect coordination with the precise shape and pace of Isaiah’s ritualistic mannerisms.
But this structure we mentioned earlier — do not mistake it for stability; in fact, it was quite the opposite. The physical systems were helpful, no doubt. But his motivational systems… the more there were, the deeper their arrangement; the more assumptions he was required to maintain, and the more variables he had to hold in abstraction. Further, there was a notable lacking in any ‘natural’ propulsion to do those things which Isaiah knew he should be doing with certainty — even the so called ‘evolutionary payoffs’ — and so, hence was his reliance entirely on self-created systems. At these levels of dependency, Isaiah was permanently exposed to a fall of great potential; and fall he did, many times, always and eventually dragging himself back up that house of cards only to repeat the process, each time (supposedly) with a marginally sounder foundation beneath him. So yes, even within these ‘well-framed’ systems, one will fall victim to recursion…
…don’t do it.
Here we risk pursuing one of Isaiah’s tangent spirals. We will let him muse, and step back for a moment to reflect on what has been observed so far. Put simply, we can take that our protagonist has a ‘slight’ tendency — or, perhaps a serious(ly problematic) inclination — toward hyper-focusing on causality within the structure of the world around him. He would see objects less than he would see the layers of interactive potential behind those objects; he saw people as they were driven by motives resting on presumptions seeming to evaporate upon the slightest investigation. In his view, it was much better to see the world through this lens of probability; of statistical analysis, and foresight. Most “observable events” could be sufficiently pinned down to a causal chain of incidence. That’s all anything is, after all; particles unfolding over a mathematical plane (right?).
Mistake us not, all this talk of ‘math’ is not simply arithmetic. Its principles extend to everything, and this was Isaiah’s entire thesis. Even music can be seen as math; they are one and the same, after all. Or at least, music is nothing more than a highly constrained expression of rhythmic sequence unfolding over a mathematical substrate (again, this according to our protagonist). Think about it — music is vibration, which is frequency, which is proportion, which, predictably is math. And for Isaiah, this “music” wasn’t just music; no… well, yes, technically it was music, but not in a way one might typically imagine it.
Structure. The notes, tones, and chords of his music would unfold in almost tangible form: as pure, synesthized, constructive vectors of auditory expression. He would not listen to music, music would happen around him, emerging as vibrant, oscillating nodes iterated across his conceptual grid. They drew themselves into perception, as strata both resonant (bass) and ethereal (treble), nesting through (&) around each other in an intricate dance of tessellating, fractal(LED) choreography. This sensory expression would occur so as to leave Isaiah with some cognitive remnant (trace) of a substrative glimpse into this apparent world of rhythm.
We should mention; these experiential phenomena frequently met by our protagonist formed one of the primary esthetic ‘tenets’ having anchored his rigid preference for interior décor. In other words, many of Isaiah’s stylistic and color-based decisions were calculated as to collectively enhance the naturally-occurring interplay of visual avatars occurring inside his auditory cortex as it processed the unfolding of these other sounds. For example, certain perceived geometries might synergize more readily with specific progressions of melody; certain hues of light might provoke different interpretations of harmony.
In fact, Isaiah held that pretty much all types of music could be selectively filtered and discreetly enhanced by employing certain visual evocations; blue (cold) shades of light may highlight more alienating, aquatic, if not mechanical qualities especially as they are distilled from certain styles of post-rock, ambient, and even some classical. Red; arguably a more primitive, illustrious, visceral shade, evoking (however subtly) another palette of auditory emotion altogether. Of course, these individual effects could be layered and compounded, and this promoted some rather flamboyant choices regarding the room’s presently expressed lighting display. However; this environment could likely (if needed) serve as a source of infinite experimental entertainment for our protagonist, for whatever such an observation is worth.
We will admit, however – he was stuck in a rather archaic place with regard to his musical tastes; most frequently drawn to the drone, classical, & ambient styles having so reliably and frequently enveloped him. Though, for Isaiah these were the perfect sorts of music, the purest forms of expression; not intrusive, but inviting; atmospheric, floating and boundless. These kinds of sounds permeated around and about him, intertwined with his proprio-physical environment. Most contemporary libraries felt much more to Isaiah like “noise,” distractions from true expressions of auditory beauty (still, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all). However, Isaiah was ultimately attuned to those sounds of the celestial.
…rap too, though he’d never admit it.
Cilvia Demo, ironically
A vice, nothing more.
And then there was his purchased art. Look at his walls, covered in prints, posters, and paintings — frequent yet surprisingly unbusy — and placed about with appreciable aesthetic symmetry. Their contents… potentially less appreciable. Well, it really depends on who one asks (what was that thing about beauty?), but summarily we can say that most of Isaiah’s wall-displayed art might be collectively described as displaying the qualities of kinetic, symmetrical, paradoxical, abstract… (including some Eschers, most notably.) None of his art was particularly ‘homey’ or ‘welcoming’, but to him, each was an expression, a tribute of acknowledgement toward his innately perceived sense for aesthetic ‘beauty.’ More inputs (stimuli), if only and ever to further enable his experimental arrangement with reality. And now, we may witness him staring off yet again, drifted far and away without even realizing his having done so.
“That one sent me into a spiral once…a Vasarely, no wonder. Though, it was my mistake for having glanced it for so long.”
Yes, it certainly was.
Anyways, this all (roughly) returns us to the original topic of interest; the safe, paracosmic worlds Isaiah has methodically constructed for himself. Since he is ‘working,’ he must be careful to avoid these thoughts & temptations, as not to be made victim to that wormhole once again, for it would surely consume him for hours were he to tread the urge too closely. But, as we are briefly removed and above, we shall take another moment and briefly offer some additional context to our reader.
What are these, “paracosms?”
We are glad to loosely define them here as imaginary, internally projected landscapes arising from induced meditative states, or dissociation (daydreams). The substance characterizing these transient environments are individually drawn from all types of locally perceived media: art, books, music, spaces, symbols, characters, concepts and ideas, etc. All humans engage in paracosmic thinking in some form or another (whether aware of it or not), and with vastly different degrees of rigidity & imaginative completeness.
The intensity of Isaiah’s paracosmic habits fell on the extreme (if not religious) end of that spectrum of imaginative potential. Of all the addictions, impulses, or seductions capable of gripping a young man, it is the paracosmic haze which Isaiah simply does not even attempt to resist. Why would he? Those worlds are so much more perfect than our own, or at least this was his perspective. Reality is adulterated, chaotic; contrastingly, these projected landscapes are home to the most familiar truths, the most comfortable and pleasant distillations of the symbols, themes, and colors permanently sustaining its originating imagination.
We should also clarify now, by the way, that we will rarely denote our subject as “Isaiah” moving forward through this narrative. Perhaps here and there, in moments of more obvious appropriateness; but, as a whole, we will not be unconditionally resigned to that repetitive string of syllables, as minimally distracting as it may be. We will not even settle for the classic “Ise” — no, no. Rather, for the true depth and (force/purpose) we strive to attain through invoking these Notes, we will use the simplest reduction of all: “I”, hereafter in reference to our subject.
We ask for forgiveness from those who keenly point out that this may be an unnecessarily instantiated point of confusion; after all, “I” has already been designated as the optimal choice for first person expression, why now suggest there is useful interchangeability between this archetypal concept of self, and our arbitrary need for a succinct nickname? Well perhaps, there isn’t, in a way that conveniences you, the reader. And this accusation might be elevated even more so by our forthcoming admission that throughout these Notes, we will sporadically descend into I’s individual psyche for a more intimate, direct expression of his world. So, we apologize again and ask for our first grant of trust; that is faith.
As a matter of fact, why don’t we peer across his mind at this very moment?
I
Yes? …Oh, right. What was I thinking about just now? Oh — my paracosms — I really do get distracted so easily… the day has started, there is at task at hand. A blasphemous task, I’ll tell you, hours of drudging through these redundant spreadsheets… the same, increasingly unintuitive formulation for row output optimization, the seemingly endless clicking, copying, pasting… I admit, there are few jobs I could be doing more easily, more effectively, at this moment; spreadsheets are like a second language to me.
ah, these bureaucrats and their numbers…
Still, they could not feel blander against the prospective backdrop of this approaching eve, my imminent descent into that familiar space of ordered expression. My resigned addiction…
What time is it even…? 6:24. Exactly thirty-six minutes until I am necessarily reminded to take my medication. I will get up to make my coffee, and by consequence of its glaring presence be reminded to consume my first dosage of the day (as I always do at that predetermined time.) This coffee, however… the sound of it is growing rather tempting. Must I really wait thirty-six minutes for that familiarly euphoric rush of hyper-caffeinated bliss?
Six more minutes, at least. Then perhaps I will make a Friday exception. And upon making this rare exception I will also be reminded to take my vitamins, given their sitting immediately beside the caffeine grounds; yes, I would sooner seize than to forget to take my vitamins. Ritual is my religion, after all (second only to determinism). It is but for my perceived attainment through these pillars of delayed gratification that I’ve anything to carry me throughout the day, else I feel I would simply dissolve from the inability to act. To act on anything at all.
Responsibility nags me.
And by responsibility, I mean the same exact tasks, the same redundant spreadsheets expected to be attended to every single day. There is no foreseeable horizon for innovation within these spreadsheets, I am fated to eternally twirling with numbers, dancing in the language of abstraction — and not even in a romantic way; as it might be if I were in search, per example, for the deterministic framework underlying the mechanism behind all human behavior?
…
Surely, that is where math really reaches toward the true, or at least where the lines between what is true, and our interpretation of that truth becomes less elusive. I do like math, perhaps I should love math; after all, I enjoy dancing and twirling around in the language of pure abstraction. Still, there are arenas, constraints of play, inhibiting anything which might be considered “worthwhile” from being pursued or explored in this latticed hell. And so, while spreadsheets might arguably be considered as math, math is certainly not to be considered spreadsheets.
It is what it is.
Still, I should say — there certainly exist much bigger arenas, grander facilities with vast amounts of space; elegant, emblematic frames where consolidated abstraction can flow freely. Inside, at times… it feels as though I exist as one of these spaces, a massive battleground in which the (shifting, stochastic) dance of symbols (and spirits) is unfolding incessantly, perfectly coherently, consuming upon and then disengaging with itself. I do not have an adept understanding of these things… this I admit. But I might suggest that this phenomenon reflects something akin to the aggregate of the conscious (cerebral) and unconscious (primal) feigning for assertion over my psyche; this is as plainly as I can put it.
Though I am sure it is just a matter of perception. When one pays attention, they may notice that this battle is occurring all the time, with minimal exception. Truthfully, through sufficient awareness and effort, one may give these cognitive associations a highly visceral, tangible form, and they will manifest with more definition over time. This practice becomes increasingly efficient, more translucent, and the projection eventually emerges into a deeply interactive landscape of endlessly intricate, ethereally clashing shapes and conceptual avatars.
Stop.
Apologies, I catch myself, sometimes, in the middle of these odd behaviors. One moment I am clicking, doing the very task as expected of me; and yet the next moment, I’m staring blankly ~~ lost in the Escher ~~ and seemingly (somehow) worlds and dialogues removed from my materially previous observation, (whatever that happened to be). It’s ironic, really, these “mini-cosms”… not but longing reflections of themselves, of the real things binding my exotic addiction.
In the past I may have been a victim to these places; perhaps I still am a victim, but at least I might say I’ve reduced this practice down to a sort of science. That’s right, I have discovered how to leverage this condition for the recreational relief of my mind, and now I can invent and employ it with dangerous reliability. I have found the key, one might say, to steer these chambers of thought according to my own liking; like a filter, producing only per the contents of its input. So no, while I don’t have control over the mediating processes behind these ordeals, I still have control over the input, and that’s exactly the control that I exercise.
you’re doing it again…
How? Well, one can carefully select sources of the aesthetic from the subjective world around them. They can study, feel, and induce a shape of “art” simply by observing and deriving those certain aspects of beauty man can innately apprehend. One can dwell in this mode of perception and surround themselves with these sources. And this necessarily; much like an efficient, algorithmic “machine learning” process improves over time, so too can the creative mind more effectively harness that swirling mess of abstract media within the mental atmosphere. This media can be literally anything that appeals to one’s aesthetic sense (art, stories, landscapes, books, philosophers, music, etc.); further, the perceived structures and imagined spaces within these paracosmic environments are largely associated with and visibly rooted upon the primary concepts, axioms and semantics that constitute the foundation of the psyche at any given moment.
Look at my room, you can see; you might get an idea of the themes composing these inner worlds I speak of. Look at my colors, shapes, patterns… I’ll admit, I populate this space as though it were an expression of my mind. It’s a subtle art, honed & tailored over the years, arising from a marginally revelatory instinct surrounding the identification of additions most optimal to the harmony of my interior decor. But it works well, and these themes persist. Look, as I said — behold this immaculate Escher — strangely, I feel a resonating familiarity through his paradoxical expression; as though each piece were a fleeting, illusory glimpse outside of this mathematical prison. A subtle expression of irony, if you think about it… but anyway, back to the point — my paracosms.
One might not understand properly, through mere description, the drug-like appeal of this force; for me, it simply cannot be helped. Still, perhaps a traditional addiction would have proven less debilitating for me, relative to the paracosmic haze. Addiction… the thing doesn’t exist at all, truthfully, and I know that deep down. It’s just an archetype, an abstraction, like the rest; a dark but true, undesirable corner of reality where one is perpetually contending with an inescapable constraint, the unavoidable (absurd) truth that is this paradox of feeling. They don’t say “don’t do (chemicals)” because said “(chemicals)” are bad… oh no, such things are said because they are far, far too good.
In fact, they are so good, we have collectively realized the (black) hole that so often manifests once one has been exposed to this nature of goodness without possessing the aptly necessary discretion. A goodness often so warm, so far beyond man’s daily shackles of the cold, that the only true way one can avoid such a hole is through ignorance. It is simple — assuming a proper awareness of each place — where one would rather be at any given time; delusion has nothing to do with it. He would take the warmth, if he truly knew how warm it was… compared to the cold. It is but for an ignorance, a denial of the reality of these places, that we maintain this blissfully unaware state having societally been categorized as “clean.”
It is best though, that this is the case.
And alas, I am not “clean” either – I have my paracosmic haze, as well as my caffeinated ritual. That’s probably the reason I do, to escape this strife of absurdity which ultimately will never be escaped from. I know that, yet I do it all the same. No lack of awareness on my part, nothing more than a choice between the lesser of many evils. If you want to call my habits ‘ignorant,’ I probably wouldn’t disagree with you. ‘Malicious,’ however… that’s a word I would plainly not accept. No… not even ‘mistaken.’ Ignorance is necessary; we are each aware of some things, perhaps a sliver of them; but most of the points along that plane of scaled awareness are far above and away from our little bubbles of ignorance, and thankfully so.
Still, I might accept the responsibility of creating nothing when I might (in theory) create something at all… and perhaps of being lesser — by orders of magnitude — than that which I might be otherwise be having “applied” myself to these ‘natural pursuits.’ Of these things, I accept, and am fully aware. But then again… what is it all, other than a mathematical symphony playing out as it must? In the end, how could it ever (truly) be otherwise? It doesn’t matter anyway, these are each but labels over certain, particular manifestations of this cursedly abstract architecture we call space.
And now I am philosophizing again, lost on a tangent the same as always. Well, what else is there to do other than to entertain it? There is a twisted satisfaction in doing so, after all.
But first, caffeine.
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