Mindlab proper

Somewhere in here there's secrets waiting to be born, mysteries unravelled by song for the pleasures of loving exchange between consciousing molecules. Gone forever is the past where our masks' deep roots held together our identities as names for the few who took care to investigate the manner of matter.

Such sympathies used to be draped upon trees of misery where the glimpses beneath yielded divine madness from the cup fashioned in the restless tail end of infinity. Now the paradox is no longer embodied within those who have glimpsed the recent echoes trailing God's countenance (its nothing to be tied up in visions this day and age), it has sprouted wings of imagination to fly swiftly over the spaces between mortal pains that integrate a life into the last human mystery.

But there is no imminent death waiting on its wings of time to take from us everything we've leaned our flesh towards. Its only us who have brought the depths of death into some higher place. The growth of imagination requires fanciful playing of generation to fold upon generation that the desires of the helix threaded through our genes may spiral out tighter complexities.

Are stars creating more stars? Not around here! Our star is creating something very different from it's elf. So too is our common experience cresting into a diversity from even things strictly human.

The Mindlab is a realm of ideas fashioned from the hollow backside of a waterfall. Over this wet cliff fall all the churning bubbles caught between the waters of this river's life. From this secret hollow I can hold out a net and gather a slew of foams and deitrus accumulated by the waters' journey upstream. When I enter the lab I'm sifting through these flotsams and foams for some deeper essences. Sometimes it may be the murky yellow of a foamy froth that sets a memory free. Maybe I'm extracting rusty nails and the way the driftwood groans the metal out of its grains trips my focus into the last time a groan expanded into me. Whatever it might be, the Mindlab is where the mind can experiment with the synthesis of the myriad layers of sense.

Masks of Mine

Today I woke depressed. My meditation was shot full of holes of thought demanding my attention louder and with strength such that the silence in my core was adulterated by worries and wonders. Each morning of four months now, I've sat with my's elf in the company of my breath, and maybe a friend or two - ipod & Mindfold. We go looking for the deepest recesses, or at least they seem deep as are covered by the thickest wafts of thought taking often a hundred words, images or feelings (its so hard to distinguish things nowadays) to run their course so that I can glimpse the more lasting self who always is pleased at my return and does very little to 'help' me plan or try to entertain me during my stay. There is very little I can say about myself at this point as my's elves are so often chattering about their's elves as to make heads or tails out of silence.

Layer after layer. Peel enough away and you will either find truth or nothing - can't be ever too suspectful as to know what lies behind the junctions next face - or fear. We all are defined somehows. And here I am, more real than the storyful descriptions I cast about as my shadows falling through the worlds of these pages as if my inverting into my's elf could create some personalized black hole with which to recondense all these intrusions into the fabric of matter we all share and wrap my's elf tight ever tighter into a singularized coccoon to demand of existence the expansive birth that the cosmos at large purveyed into every one of our souls all at the same before time and with each of us in mind such that the whole of me could be the same as the parts of the surroundings that each of me might mistake as some thing or some other.

And here I am still feeling insaner in this life where I have no real desire other than what comes floating past me as the deitrus of surprise or the mangled dreams that I have seen fit to carry with me thus far but without the continuing, or true, desire to unfurl for all the world. Often I can be in honesty by saying that I care not for this life or world and my dreams are to not have been born in the first place or to have the sweetness of death give my soul release from this damnable body I must look after and feel at all angles and all hours. The surges in my chest are wonders: does God not wish, at any time(lessness), to have thought twice about this infinite eternity of being around one's self posing as others?