And therein lies the lie.
That there is a form a knowledge, of possibility, of being, of doing, that is outside your reach. That there is a way to be that is not only available, but readily tailored to your needs. That somehow, to exist is not only to defy them, but to destine oneself to a life of never ending torture.
And this, as has been created, has formed of itself a self-fulfilling prophecy.
In the ways that stories create space for reality the prophecy has made room for itself.
In speaking as if spaces don’t exist the narrative has taken over room. Slowly eliminating spaces around it. Just like it has eaten and depleted physical resources, it has eaten and depleted mental and emotional resources. There is nothing left, there is nothing left, there is nothing left – they kept telling us this. And, in nothing being left, we took the only option we had.
can only be trod upon
by those whose feet
have met time
and learned their dance.
But a monolithic world is about as interesting as waiting for the internet to come back. And freedom is nothing more but possibility. Imagine we are in a room. We have planned to stay in this room for the rest of the week. If a friend locks us in – have they taken away our freedom? Now imagine a thought. Singular. Independent. Imagine it alone in a void. Around it a sea of nothing. Now imagine this thought is you.
How does it feel?
Between the stones
There are souls
Make sure your feet are
Now zoom out until you can see another thought slightly distant from the first.
Move out further.
Until all that is left is a sea of independent thoughts bobbing to the ebb and flow of consciousness. Tell me that there is a place in this sea that a thought can’t reach. Tell me that there’s a place, save for deliberate action to stop an idea, that an idea can’t be held.
And thus it is the lie.
That somehow it is not yours to take.
let sighs fall
into the dark.
You reach out your hand.