calor


i. the good world drowns


So here we are, you and I, standing on this unforgiving precipice of the universe. How silly, looking back, pretending that the world could be anything but a plane; a sheet that, as we walk, sinks and bends beneath the weight of our conciousness and mass.

Where do we go from here? Up, I'd suggest, if the world was created in such an ideal way where the concept of "up" is practical. So stuck in our grounded way of thinking that we assume that the arbitrarity of something like spacial position matters. No; after all, nothing has a true home in neither space nor time. And this Up and Down become equal in all ways, and the only thing that changes is distance. If we exist in such a form, I think both of us can come to the conclusion that it is no longer important to wonder about where we are going. What only matters, now, is that we go at all.

Off spinning on this fatal track into the center of the Sun, Earth spins so dutifully. Doesn't that sound so utterly familiar and yet so hopelessly decontextualizing? Suddenly, everything both makes sense and no longer makes any sense at all.

The Flood comes, and everything begins to warm like churning machine parts underhand. It's easy to fall victim to acclimatization under such conditions; bodies like ours, selfish in the way that they find order in destruction, thrive when they can become part of a system. We embrace the flow and feel at home in energy. Inputs become outputs. Chaos becomes order becomes chaos. And we build.

Let's stop. Let's stop building. Let's become cold and let our bodies ground themselves down into flotsam among the stars.

Come with me.