All of reality is a medium for
self-consciousness and posing. All of the doing in reality is venting of sorts,
masking the subterfuge with top floating intent. Behavior is as the art-form of
symbols christened by action as if movements were the trace. Our individuality,
is as if this were all name tags and shackles
of acceptance in isolation as the reward. There is a prominence of sensory
input to validate this gist of everything as separate but always coalescing in
sorts. There is a claim of consciousness as orphaned from source but attentive
to the formality family reality presents. There is the fracture of moments, in
moments when the card house of reality falls fail-forward. Everything is all
closet-fulls of wardrobes to wear. Working the hallways between closet to
closet re-pose. What is this unclaimed fill, loss of lines, missed marks on the
stage, helium that leaks out of self assigned balloons, waywardness behind
attempts to focus? What is this empathy shape-shifting and emotion of drawnness,
this fracture of sanity and excitation from yonder? Reality is the transit
system that we ride awake daily. It takes us from here to there and thensome. We
loose ourselves in the here to there to some where by some means of beneath, behind,
and beyond. This is a baffle of travel with no report. It journeys in us even
though we just present as all alike-travelers. We’re just parts of an
unclaimable whole. We inadvertently and unintentionally search for that, that
embrace of the whole, the energetic fabric of expandedness of being as a
greater sense of oneness, though not to be fooled. But we are a damn fool
enterprise without permission as self or finally once there, with reprise. No
matter, and no matter gets in the way. We are bound beyond reason by quest. We
are drawn beyond reality’s sting operation. We have come from and are going to,
for this here is all in transit however it cares to jest and bequest. We are a
oneness, in deliverance but not really in receivership as in any of all of the
rest . . .
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