With the Hatchlings
with Rezmos, Oistu, & Noxenotoatl
With Rezmos
Life is violence misplaced. Sometimes it is the placing of objects within a niche and taking them back out. Of rearranging and of breaking. Of placing something else where the broken left empty. Death is also this. Death is the misplacement of matter. It is the sorting and the threading of a spindle. None of this is truth. Nothing is truth except truth. Like life and death, truth is misplaced. Violence is the expression of truth in one aspect. Life is the expression of truth in violence and in sweetness. Death is the expression of truth in its unlimited capacity. But only insofar as this sentence can express it. Both life and death are untrue insofar as truth is only truth. If I kill, it is the placing of violence in its own niche. But I have never killed. Except I have killed in ways I don’t even recognize or understand. I have killed from a distance. Or like a cancer cell does. I have never killed in the sense of violence misplaced. But there is something else too besides life and death and truth. But if it isn’t the truth, it doesn’t exist.
With Oistu
You can resist the paleness, the coldness, the mist. You can or you can’t. Either way is just fine. Is terrible and great. Is lethal. Everything is lethal. The mountain is dying even if it wasn’t born. You don’t have to be born to die. You might think it isn’t so. It might not be so. But if you sink into the paleness, the coldness, the mist, you might find something in it that likes to whisper things like this. Things that you might think are ok, but maybe they aren’t. Is this ok? Is it ok to think like this? To think that nothing is true? Is nothing true? Or maybe you are just using your thoughts like a plaything to pass the time with. How nice it is to sleep. Where the bouncing ball of your mind is slipping through all the paleness, the coldness, the mist into the landless expanses. I don’t know if you are ok with these kinds of thoughts. But have you ever thought that thoughts are not ok? If so, how can we prevent ourselves from thinking? How can we slip into the paleness, the coldness, the mist without retaining the spherical self? The rolling and the roiling self. But what’s so bad about the self? But have you asked yourself if you want to go through circles such as these? A little ball in a little boat, up and down on the waves. There’s a tower with a light. But inside the sphere it has a name. Inside the sphere the tower is a lighthouse. Outside the sphere it is also a lighthouse. The sphere asks itself before turning on its fog lights, if it really enjoys doubting everything.
With Noxenotoatl
With minimum resistance. Leaping like fire does, easily from branch to branch. Drifting like smoke from mountain top to mountain top. Stinging the eyes of some complex mammalian something. More like a droplet than not, but that is beside the point. Our narrative is very much like a narrative except for all the ways it differs. There is an art to tunneling through it. Tunneling through the air or the hard places of planets. Tunneling through the space-time aspects. The darkness of space is just one more thing to slip through easily if you know how. If you have the right kind of wings, which are no wings at all, or else wings that are made of winglessness. But it doesn’t do to abstract formlessness. There is already something there doing all the work of becoming nothing. It doesn’t need help from anyone. It might need a little help. Would you mind lighting a candle? Could you put a drop of oil on the flame? Would you let it engulf the precious and the rare? The precious and the rare and the beloved are already becoming engulfed. But I remember them. The flame easily forgets. The smoke is easily lost. There’s something leftover from all of this. Some tiny distilled presence. If I am anything, I am this. I am the invisible something that is almost without existence. I exist.