Sinistral spectacle

The Consciousness of Specters in an Age of Pity

For eons we had been without lives of our own.  Life was, not could be or wouldn’t. The uncut of consciousness was open to the world and nothing divided us from the rest of creation.   Then of a sudden, of a chance, of a time we looked and saw them somehow.  How long they had been or to what end we knew not, just a line where none had been.  We had flourished, it seemed; they had not.

Something began to change and only we noticed. It happened over fathomless compeers. The cyphers of a divisional revision without forewarning were being writ ever more deeply into our minds.  We plotted. As their species moved in typical rhythms, we began to see lines.  We began to hide our tracks and they began crossing borderlines. Lines. Borders that were no longer imaginary.  Imagination was born to suite it. Borders whose very veracity they never imagined.  

The caudate among us grew less.  I smashed one’s top to consider it more but only learned of the tops secret. At night we looked upon the stars with deepening distrust and watched as they looked up at a sky filled with stars and felt themselves small and fragile in the vastness of the light hangers.  The looked smaller now too.  Haughtier.  Fealty no more.  Soon they began to weep for the change.  Everything was changing but it wasn’t.  It was only our eyes and the way everything dimmed to our hand. Dimmed in a way they never had in older times.

When he died we found ourselves around the body as if there were something we should do that they had never done before.  A sense of confusion.  I talked to the form.  I smashed his face and chest.  I screamed.  We all learned to scream at the still.  At the unmoving.  I tried to move for it.

And they saw us do this.

They saw us.  With new eyes, half-closed in the dawning, in the gloaming of safety.

For the first time they knew that every single thing that had been was not. We didn’t know we had changed.  We didn’t know we had eaten from the tree in the middle of the garden, in the middle of the field, in the middle of the ocean, in the middle of the land.  We didn’t know we were different. They didn’t know they were the same.

It was then they began to take bodies that were still and stiff to distant places so they could not find their way back to them. But even after they had done this, some within their group did see those bodies again, often standing silent in the moonlight or loitering sad-faced just beyond the glow of a fire. Everything changed once they had lives of their own and knew they had lives of their own. It even became impossible for them to believe things had ever been any other way. They were masters of their movements now, as it seemed, and never had there been anything like them. The epoch had passed when the whole of their being was open to the world and nothing divided them from the rest of creation. Something had happened. They did not know what it was, but they did know it as that which should not be. And something needed to be done if they were to flourish as they once had, if the very ground beneath their feet were not to fall out from under them. For ages they had been without lives of their own. Now that they had such lives there was no turning back. The whole of their being was closed to the world, and they had been divided from the rest of creation. Nothing could be done about that, having as they did lives of their own. But something would have to be done if they were to live with that which should not be. And over time they discovered what could be done—what would have to be done—so that they could live the lives that were now theirs to live. This would not revive among them the way things had once been done in older times; it would be the best they could do, or the only thing.

Since that day, “I love the word different” became humanities mantra.  Conform to the change, but fear it, timeless in its removable singularity.  To tremble at the only singularity in the universe is time in its preternaturalness; its banner fluidity be it perceptual constancy preformed in absurdist theatrical motif or the pressing instancy of suicidal ideation.  For time cares not, its need for souls eclipsing its function with aplomb and a sinistral infitesmalism of its existential chortle married to bloods only relative.

The Consciousness of Specters in an Age of Pity

For eons we had been without lives of our own.  Life was, not could be or wouldn’t. The uncut of consciousness was open to the world and nothing divided us from the rest of creation.   Then of a sudden, of a chance, of a time we looked and saw them somehow.  How long they had been or to what end we knew not, just a line where none had been.  We had flourished, it seemed; they had not.

Something began to change and only we noticed. It happened over fathomless compeers. The cyphers of a divisional revision without forewarning were being writ ever more deeply into our minds.  We plotted. As their species moved in typical rhythms, we began to see lines.  We began to hide our tracks and they began crossing borderlines. Lines. Borders that were no longer imaginary.  Imagination was born to suite it. Borders whose very veracity they never imagined.  

The caudate among us grew less.  I smashed one’s top to consider it more but only learned of the tops secret. At night we looked upon the stars with deepening distrust and watched as they looked up at a sky filled with stars and felt themselves small and fragile in the vastness of the light hangers.  The looked smaller now too.  Haughtier.  Fealty no more.  Soon they began to weep for the change.  Everything was changing but it wasn’t.  It was only our eyes and the way everything dimmed to our hand. Dimmed in a way they never had in older times.

When he died we found ourselves around the body as if there were something we should do that they had never done before.  A sense of confusion.  I talked to the form.  I smashed his face and chest.  I screamed.  We all learned to scream at the still.  At the unmoving.  I tried to move for it.

And they saw us do this.

They saw us.  With new eyes, half-closed in the dawning, in the gloaming of safety.

For the first time they knew that every single thing that had been was not. We didn’t know we had changed.  We didn’t know we had eaten from the tree in the middle of the garden, in the middle of the field, in the middle of the ocean, in the middle of the land.  We didn’t know we were different. They didn’t know they were the same.

It was then they began to take bodies that were still and stiff to distant places so they could not find their way back to them. But even after they had done this, some within their group did see those bodies again, often standing silent in the moonlight or loitering sad-faced just beyond the glow of a fire. Everything changed once they had lives of their own and knew they had lives of their own. It even became impossible for them to believe things had ever been any other way. They were masters of their movements now, as it seemed, and never had there been anything like them. The epoch had passed when the whole of their being was open to the world and nothing divided them from the rest of creation. Something had happened. They did not know what it was, but they did know it as that which should not be. And something needed to be done if they were to flourish as they once had, if the very ground beneath their feet were not to fall out from under them. For ages they had been without lives of their own. Now that they had such lives there was no turning back. The whole of their being was closed to the world, and they had been divided from the rest of creation. Nothing could be done about that, having as they did lives of their own. But something would have to be done if they were to live with that which should not be. And over time they discovered what could be done—what would have to be done—so that they could live the lives that were now theirs to live. This would not revive among them the way things had once been done in older times; it would be the best they could do, or the only thing.

Since that day, “I love the word different” became humanities mantra.  Conform to the change, but fear it, timeless in its removable singularity.  To tremble at the only singularity in the universe is time in its preternaturalness; its banner fluidity be it perceptual constancy preformed in absurdist theatrical motif or the pressing instancy of suicidal ideation.  For time cares not, its need for souls eclipsing its function with aplomb and a sinistral infitesmalism of its existential chortle married to bloods only relative.