There comes a time when all you can speak of, you can say only paradoxically.
Glasses shatter into several fragments. Each, having its own reality. What it held, spreads across the floor in no particular direction. But there is a pattern. When you walk, the tiniest pieces inch into your skin and in some corner of your mind, you feel the pain but for the most part of it, you just don't care. You're numb, but you're not.
Your head feels dizzy, you still keep walking in endless circles of resignation, desperation. You go where your feet take you. You can't feel the ground. But you're aware. Yes. You're aware of every step that you take. Your tactile sense have never been so sharp before.
When you close your eyes you can see the abyss of darkness that you've just fallen into. You can get out just by opening your eyes. But does that make it any different? Does it straighten the knots of the fix that you're in?
Eventually you see lines, colours, shapes. They grow over each other, fumbling in the dark, fighting for a purpose. Maybe they're trying to get out. Maybe they're not. maybe there is no purpose. Open your eyes, they're saying. I can hear them. Open your eyes. Their voices are getting louder. But I don't want to. I want to stay locked. Maybe there is freedom inside. The further I stay from them, the better.
If you shut your eyes fiercely you can see how your mind looks. It is no organ, it has no flesh, no blood, no tissues. You can't understand the form but it's your mind. It somehow feels all too familiar. You stare into it. Trying to understand the disputes, the disturbances, the shambles of all order.
Shambles. Chaos. Realization. Now you smile. Hah.
In a movie called Pi (I saw it a long time ago) a mathematician said: It's not the number. It's the meaning. It's the syntax. It's what's between the numbers.
919. The story behind inky pinky ponky
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