Inside us all
there is a switchbox
called self-permission.
There is a monitor
and a censor riding herd.
A tape drive of self-recording
prompted towards appropriate response,
contextual to a fault,
ingrained within the limits of choice.
It is transactional,
tit for tat,
gives and gets.
Reproducible behaviors become predictable
yet idiosyncrasies seep through.
Crumbs of self-pronouncement
litter everywhere
from mass murder to a smile,
from life decision to absolute denial.
Crumbs are everywhere
as some are emotional,
some sensing, some imaginative,
some interpretive, some as held results,
even some crumbs of self-judging,
enough to construe as story, habit, or m.o.
This fine weave of self-permission
is undisclosed
under the guise of motive or cause,
dressed in the apparel of decisions.
This schemata of self-circuitry
is involved.
There is this switchbox
that stimulates the unconscious secretion
of specific self chemistry,
self administered,
with experiential and more
subtle electrical effects.
It is almost taboo
to search for its whereabouts within.
It is like a black box
from an airplane disaster
in that you would never look for it
unless there was a serious compromise
already involved
yet in an unrealized way,
reality is that disaster,
proposing the search
and surely begging the question . . .
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