There is no wind blowing–dead leaves rejoice.
Perspective and position, what is seen and what is felt as the self is situated in the press of the universe surrounding, are illusions. Is the universe pressing in on the boundaries of who I believe myself to be? Or am I pushing out from singularity of the soul pressing the universe outward from the self?
Companionship and connection, phantom entanglements like gossamer strands catching light, extant as perceived by those seeking comfort and fearful of solitude, extinct in the infinite void of the universal condition. Disorder and chaos in everlasting conflict with time and creation–this is what matters, not pace or pattern, not mote or mode, not the rapacious grin of freedom’s muse.
I am the son of stars, the murderess of millions, androgynous and white in the black of nothing. I am heat and glory boiling away the caress of time and space against me. I am love and lust, as flighty as a dove, as clingy as dust. I am the poor hermit, blithely and wickedly content to stare out from the stench of my personal antre with disdain–with a message of superiority over all those twisting and gyrating in the dust, in the open, squawking and gibbering the platitudes of the day to each other.
I am the silent horde.
I and the entity that was me before are the full extent of existence, and all else is but shadows on the wall of the cavern of my personal prison.
All that you’ve betrayed, all that you’ve loved, all that you’ve hated, baited, and waited for, all that you’ve lusted after and despised, all that you’ve ignored, all that you’ve lorded over is the great and singular self of always.
I am you.
We always have just been the one and only entities in the all, and not even separate, but the same, temporally and dimensionally askew and folded back in on each other–the world dragon devouring itself for lack of other energies for sustenance.
In stasis or in perpetual motion, decay is inevitable, and no amount of action will stop it. You can dance and tumble across the stage in loud colors in an exhibition of what you believe is a unique and beautiful soul, entire of itself; but, these motions are the cascading tide of pebbles and dust in an avalanche. Your vibrations are heartbeats in an earthquake. Your glories are tears in a tidal wave. Your self, a mote of dust in a universe of inevitable decay.
We are the sons of a thousand suns and a thousand sons. We are the suns of a thousand sons and a thousand suns.
You are me. And together we are alone.