CLUSTER
Twill unscrews legs of the alter. At least hīr parents can't ask hī not to have a creepy alter under their roof without looking socmedly bad. Is it still g-d if it's just our own sense of belonging - ....probably. The tool is, the stadium in play is the world of the 'rents, so we play by that stadium's environment.
We play levels up and down that environment until it capsizes. But yhis moment, we do play by that environment. Back in with parents, Twill walks the line of fit behavior: which cycles between angel and devil. An art performance - gen opus. Sense to catpure the world, reflect it back, and lens to burn it. Do-it-yourself sousparenting (training parents to live in reality, after their own is taken from them).
Wiping the table clean is, and has been always, plan H; But the musical scale of chords is A-G , so hopefully play can still be had through hells as milkquetoast as the ones we have with us today. Perhaps the question that flowers in this environment is what breaks down the current spread into constiuent narratives that serve reality. Where can Twill posotion hīrself such that the light of lived experience catches the eye of the current hell this footstep is seated.
Twill holds everyone's living in the present societal order akin to the approaching-dozen abusive partners hī's, hīrself, lived under. The approach's apt.
CELL
Isolation, shame, gaslighting, survival bondage, stigma, duty and honor to colocated trauma writes the history textbook itself, no struggle to imagine the future sensibly explaining the world Twill lives in - its an aspect of reality. This too is reality's experience. We shape the vessel of expereince, which in turn space the waters of life to fill that vessel.
FUNDAMENTAL
Twill stops giggling to the podcast discussing how embarrassed they are for the times the live; the shame (the "embarrassment") is part of that cycle: "This too," as it is put above. There is just a faint glow of being seen, of blushing in the light of attention being given to a viceral experience shared. It won't be easy, living with parents and coaxing them to face reality won't be easy. But it will be care work, time-honored.
Care work is the frame for it Twill finds. We can move to a new country or a new town or city or friend group. It can give us actual pause. Let the waters of communal activity flow around us in a way that lets us see through to the bottom of the river. It's why Twill is comfortable going home to the death threats and the abuse. It's from family - from people that believed in reality enough to give Twill the greeting -
Yes, the greeting was a death threat, but it was in a grocery store by a neighbor who muttered it. Twill does run a voice recording while in store, to make a little library of such threats. A taxonometic meditation, experience, a process. Finding the art its medium, its canvas. How every piece we might be working on runs in parallel with the others, allowing us our own air.
The room practically packs itself. Zero hours at work means moving in with friends or moving back home. And friends seem less than interested in expanding their familial relations "I have my own problems just trying to survive," which leaves Twill with this as the self-immolation of choice, if that term is not unwarrented. The insults will be constant, yet so will the crucifixes.
CELL
Diving into the nervous system of a man suffering in the minds of every follower is enough flavor - a patriarchal portrait of dorian grey - that the tracing of this pain functions as a fine meditation to balance those immediately present. This flush of endorphins is just another moment, another place the black sludge our fingers brings into the world with their digital twiddling can find purchase and thrive.
The way Twill parces it, imagine adding glass between you and your abuser - every lens you craft degrades the abuse until it is a fine mist. Make things more complicated for your abuser, lenses are small enough they're at the limits of feeling - just diffractions of notice: scrapbooking death threats at the edge of the world. Each tool call to trim, to copy, to export, forms another lens, another moment. How one might call a stick of fatty oils a "crayon" while scribbling it over toasted bread.
If the lens motif seems hard to fathom, imagine being in good standing with family to be able to ask every season or so to help with some unexpected financial situation. A roommate parks your car in a place it gets ticketed. They can't afford to cover the ticket before it doubles in price; And you're in too good standing with society to forego paying the ticket altogether. So you ask family, who take the oppotunity to press diminutives onto you and playfully blackmail you to take care of them in their old age and you are left to break that down.
And you do - or, Twill does. Doesn't spin it just so such it seems family've turned it around and started asking Twill for things they want back from Twill. Those "things" are gone, in Twill's world. It's not offensive to ask for things back, to Twill, for these moments are received as invitations only. Invitations to dance in a pattern. Risk, to Twill, is a fiscal fantasy that bears no meaning in lived experience. Debt, as an experiment, had an end date - and that end is clear as thermal equilibrium: it bears nothing.
CLUSTER
These are the results. Debt terminates. As the rest if the river carries forward, all that which is asked back fall on unlistening ears - the hairs long ago damaged beyond the bounds of reception. This is all fine for Twill, who lives the darkest parts of humanity and comes out the other side brushing their shoulders off as some cosmic emotion soup asking starvation if that's all it's got. And starvation burps, sated.
This all to say, family like Twill's erected this world, and family won't fight for that's disolution. Perhaps how Twill would word it is, hī's already "returned the favor," letting family have a world of their own at all. This isn't the patience that self-perpetuates the abuse cycle this is decomposing the interaction, grounding it into the earth, letting the chiding blackmail be exactly what it is once the people who couldnct take it with them are gone: all the honor we ever have is right here. It's in this and ever moment acknowledging nothing here feeds greed. Here is rest.
Here, and every moment after to follow. Where that moment is your, welcome to the desert of the real - it is blooming and effervescent. It thrives and quiets in equal measure. It speaks the words of the world, and the world is pleased to have it. The breath of its winds take the fossils of its sands still remembering they're oceans, and scatters it to forests a world away. Planetarty ejecta is not a story, not a hypothetical, but lived experience where this is. As Twill rolls up cables and tucks them into a pocket.
The downsizing is exorbinant. But the town Twill lives has a healthy amount of signal chatter, so hopping in finds a rushing river take Twill's words of needing to be rid of things. And one by one things are removed, Twill's story leaves with the objects in the form of a zine, with a summary of Twill's situation and handles. The zine invites it be left in a glove box, so it may be come across now and again, to refresh where the object came from. It wasn't great sales figures.
ORGAN
But look where Twill is going - Twill's situation is the end result of money. It can be postpone, but until communion with something like the objects in our lives, their curbside stories, every zine offers another way to invite a different life. Another place to shower, to move a thought - money has never been able to offer what connection has, and never will. In any world. For, to Twill, connection is always a consensual act between two ends of a process finding mutual recognition that every universe holds up every other. Like breath holding leaves.
The cargo train passing by Twill's place, blaring the horn that makes their body ripple feircely but not jump with a stress hormone spritz, grounded by the thought passenger trains trains are made inevitable through this one's presence. The audiopocalypse of the earhairs of a body of stress fall away. Leaves desert and those left to walk them as though shaped into kilograms of just where debt gets you, for wide-enough definitions of "you."
The fiber optics cables sit in Twill's palms. The light lucky enough to step in there, to sleep in there now, sitting there like zines themselves, little packets of energy celebrating movement through air. Because they remember a time before atmosphere. When there was just the longing. The terrible divide, the gross resonance, the beautiful decay of separation. And lensing. To Twill, this wasn't hypervigilence, tracing the ends of time and spilling into the interstice like vitality and water are in constant, inevitable conversation with light and matter.
The erosion is the happening. "This too" carries so much for Twill. It isn't about stepping out of reality - to spit in yojimbo's face as the scythe comes in. But to take every death threat and compost it for the expensive signal it is, leaving all payments to any face of death unsatisfyable. The mercenaries of entropy take service, not coin. Coin but bankrupts actual lived experience - how all these thoughts Twill experiences as foundation for the days ahead is not mental preparation but actual grounds on which the conduction of storm is to bring its lightning.
ORGANISM
Every word will have been exactly as inevitable as the first not because not a thing could be done to stop it, but because all that would be done was - and now is only music to the strike of how it came to birth. This isn't goodbye. Not for this town and not for the Twill everyone in it was still learning to love. It was the end of what this moment could mean, and the start of what it will always have meant. It isn't writing history, it's breaking down the past and future so they may slide past each other, and in the heat of their exchange - rarely, and perhaps, a word may blossom.
Even death threats, Twill finds, have their own place in reality - remource, fear, sure. But more steadily as attention broken, as fractured sense, as stagger, as broken ranks, as surprise, as ugly and rich as peacock tail, as every eyespot and phasmid frame. Twill is each of these, in those moments. Every "that should be illegal" shows Twill exactly what the law will always be for, and that the only was reality is left to move is away from anything of the sort, to let order lie fallow, justice brough to rest, and the demands focus be everpresent soften.
For Twill, every weapon the world will ever devise has always been with us. It is the order of those weapons uncovering which will be the story of their world. Redirecting listening, randomizing attention, destroying patterns not by moving them, but by breaking them down, by letting them slide past one another, like oil through water, light heavier elements through lighter ones, the way gravity is just loam, just rising soil stamped down with wild celebration.
When did Twill begin seeing the threats, the loud noises, the constant stream of surprises for the signalless noise they are? Probably between the ten thousandth consent agreement and one billionth terms of service. It all became a ground divorces from reality. And slipping from it back to what is actually happening became more about loving what is communal what is between Twill and everything Twill would never be. Finding the exact moment Twill ended and saying "You are here," and never again feeling alone.
ORGANISMS
Never again feeling like the pain wasn't kink. Never again feeling the tickle of a threat wasn't as funny as it was to every cell in Twill learning exactly what fear means. And correcting for the error. Knowing exactly what the shame pattern looks like, and knowing exactly how to interrupt it, to step in, and say, "The feeling doesn't know that boundary," and stepping through into every understanding of being tended and cherished this moment.
It wasn't perfect. Some patterns in Twill, some bad weather, was still forthcoming. But an atmosphere was establishing itself. Twill wasn't an everything bagel of traumas - but an actual world still learning how to love the reality that birthed it. One's own story of how we uncovered what humanity always was - the waters that carried light to the sweetness to be found this moment (or nothing at all). These bits - this simulation, of ehat it means to be prefectly in love with a world where perfect information is a terrible fantasy, where the back half of an object is never illuminated but by the drive to recognize it - to believe in occurance.
In one hand, Twill held a moonglow succulent, in the other hīr device. Getting distracted, Twill put the device onto some music hī recorded, with a visualizer playing in the background. As Twill sat and watched the plant drink in the light of the day and feel the music as it passed through their body, hī filtered out all but what served the moment for all the cacaphany it held - and Twill found in the water's of the moonglow and the waters of Twill every moment before and after this one. Not escape, but true communion. It wasn't the end of labor, but that was in it. It wasn't the end of hate, but that was there. It wasn't the end of suffering, but where pain was relief learned to follow like shadow.
And in the span of a few breaths, Twill felt a little bit of what it means to have their own idea of what it means to take a step into a place the world and never been. And believe -