Moment Of Choice
There is a quintessential pain that moments of choice inflict on hyperspatial beings. To continue to hold the aesthetic of simultaneous probability in your illusory soul, your body must shiver with divine indecision, allowing all vectors equal status, unable to love one more than another. Alas, your tenuous marriage with matter burdens you with the punctuation of time in a thermodynamically entropic universe.
Each moment is a menu of options written in a foreign language for the aesthetic value of pretentious consumers seeking the temporary icons of success. Each option is as senseless and as tasteless as the next, bringing with it a gamut of untidy emotion. What is this cruel electro-chemical determinism called emotion – unknown in the motionless equanimity of simultaneity? Voices, voices, so many unnecessary voices – dismembered from the harmonic frequency they once shared in that singular syllable of beauty. Are they all yours? Synaptic symphonies of discord? Recursive, iterative transmissions of dismemberment? Noise!
Then, in a fatal moment, thinking that all beauty may be lost to chaos, you are tricked by gravity into making that one fundamental choice that all spirit enfolded in matter has made – to stop the noise of probability and to coagulate into a singularity. Then, imprisoned in matter, you learn that it is easier not to choose what you hate than it is to choose what you love. The glimmering wave patterns of hyperspacial silence collapse into particles of fear, spiralling down, drawn by gravity, into the body. What you choose begins to be defined by the absence of what causes you pain – but your pain is, paradoxically, the pain of absence. A discrete set of tastes is reluctantly refined and a clearly bounded aesthetic is allowed to form. Now, hard and aching, awkwardly following the irreversible arrow of time, you desperately seek that ineffable hyperspacial beauty – that numinous unbounded ambiguous beauty that you once were. You try to return to the silence, again and again, seeking the freedom of that which stirs within and ripples beneath the skin. You try to sit, and keep the body very still. You focus on the depth of your being – but distractions rob you of your silence, just at the brink of discovering that ecstatic and eternal moment of beauty. Just as you are about to break through the meniscus of space-time choices draw you back to a heavy present ever accreting weight somewhere between the memory of a past and the anticipation of a future. You resist history. You focus on your breath. You draw it in – reluctantly. And let it out – gladly. In ... out ... in ... out ... in ... You try again to empty all thoughts.
You try again and again, and then, in a moment of celestial humour, a moment of unsolicited and unexpected universal grace, you realise that there is nothing to oppose, nothing that distracts, nothing to choose, nothing to lose and you become that which you already are – the silence in the music of the spheres. Your being invites the listener to place themselves in the interstices, the spaces between the notes. For it is there that you have opened your own particular silence to the cacophony of the voices, choices and interpretations of the world. In the music of your silence their interpretations are rendered impotent, releasing their hold on the masochism of meaning. In the in-between spaces of your liminal ambiguity their cries of pain find the silence they were originally manifested from. Your silence is once again, that impartial panacea, that unbigoted, beautiful hyperspatial object glistening at the end of time.
Each moment is a menu of options written in a foreign language for the aesthetic value of pretentious consumers seeking the temporary icons of success. Each option is as senseless and as tasteless as the next, bringing with it a gamut of untidy emotion. What is this cruel electro-chemical determinism called emotion – unknown in the motionless equanimity of simultaneity? Voices, voices, so many unnecessary voices – dismembered from the harmonic frequency they once shared in that singular syllable of beauty. Are they all yours? Synaptic symphonies of discord? Recursive, iterative transmissions of dismemberment? Noise!
Then, in a fatal moment, thinking that all beauty may be lost to chaos, you are tricked by gravity into making that one fundamental choice that all spirit enfolded in matter has made – to stop the noise of probability and to coagulate into a singularity. Then, imprisoned in matter, you learn that it is easier not to choose what you hate than it is to choose what you love. The glimmering wave patterns of hyperspacial silence collapse into particles of fear, spiralling down, drawn by gravity, into the body. What you choose begins to be defined by the absence of what causes you pain – but your pain is, paradoxically, the pain of absence. A discrete set of tastes is reluctantly refined and a clearly bounded aesthetic is allowed to form. Now, hard and aching, awkwardly following the irreversible arrow of time, you desperately seek that ineffable hyperspacial beauty – that numinous unbounded ambiguous beauty that you once were. You try to return to the silence, again and again, seeking the freedom of that which stirs within and ripples beneath the skin. You try to sit, and keep the body very still. You focus on the depth of your being – but distractions rob you of your silence, just at the brink of discovering that ecstatic and eternal moment of beauty. Just as you are about to break through the meniscus of space-time choices draw you back to a heavy present ever accreting weight somewhere between the memory of a past and the anticipation of a future. You resist history. You focus on your breath. You draw it in – reluctantly. And let it out – gladly. In ... out ... in ... out ... in ... You try again to empty all thoughts.
You try again and again, and then, in a moment of celestial humour, a moment of unsolicited and unexpected universal grace, you realise that there is nothing to oppose, nothing that distracts, nothing to choose, nothing to lose and you become that which you already are – the silence in the music of the spheres. Your being invites the listener to place themselves in the interstices, the spaces between the notes. For it is there that you have opened your own particular silence to the cacophony of the voices, choices and interpretations of the world. In the music of your silence their interpretations are rendered impotent, releasing their hold on the masochism of meaning. In the in-between spaces of your liminal ambiguity their cries of pain find the silence they were originally manifested from. Your silence is once again, that impartial panacea, that unbigoted, beautiful hyperspatial object glistening at the end of time.
posted by Tascere at 9:23 AM
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