Courage
bubble, flame, friend, pause, current, claim
Bubble
Try to navigate a body and It's *way* too big? Change octaves - what's real this moment - right here? Name one feeling, not to diagnose, not to understand, but to celebrate, to desire?
Coworkers your only friends? Baked into the system, that - force people to hang out with you, and the relationship is brittle. Be curious to the weapons being sold off after wars - but be more curious to the weapons trained to keep troops in line through them.
Force-a-friends can't organize, the partnering's one founded in utility - put an f in front of it. And walk away. You want to hang out with other people. Would you like to give it a start?
Patterns of thought wanting to hang out with people, patterns of thought wanting to not be with people. You got to break them up. Read their lips - "not" is actually the only difference. It's fundamental opposition - no right choice.
This is just you.
Are you leaning in to the pattern of thought that wants to be hanging out with people? Or are you leaning away? One thought is heavier than air, the other lighter, and you're just breathing. Imagine bubbles.
Imagine they come out of your face and float into, entering, the space between these two thoughts. Watch how they go from: as close to you as they could get, to as backsliding to yourself, as far away as any nebula, escaping orbit, just molecules, dust mote Earth barrels through.
In my thoughts, what comes in, and dominates, what 's alright to talk about, is what I'm seeing. How you are, my beinging another sense organ for you. Is this parasitism? Or is it planetarism? Look for bubbles (what is actually happening).
Flame
For what those bubbles are, when you move in, is where you tore open. Where you paused. Where these words were taken from your mouth, fully formed. How you are (not) going to let the immediate pattern of though be dictating, supreme right-now rule for wants of "staying put," not "taking to streets" and sliding into each others DMs.
Morning greetings that feel clunky and awful, wondrous and like breaking every interstanding of what you are. And what that wants to be (bubbles). Like slipping into this moment (and every moment) is simple as adding a fulcrum and stepping through into weightlessness, and full-body, a pivot.
This isn't dancing - it's stepping in. This isn't show, it's making. It is dew, it is song-from-bird-throat. It is you feeling like these words are tearing you open, fully formed, bubble in the known world - a planet in your own right.
Perfectly s-word-that-means-sovereign - ("sovereign" that's it!) - perfectly recognized. I am just birdwatching right now. I do nothing, be nothing. You want to talk about powerless fantasy - that's just fishing, that's just birding, breathing, beating, pulsing, pausing.
Here, in this ultimate arbitration of your (social) life, does gatekeeper serve? Or is it time we blast over the gates, fly out of their equasion (the way we'd done with all our friends to get us this isolated point)? We wanted connection! Vast, ability to drown. Straddling, ankle-deep, the shore, to (not) make time.
The thought pattern most-immediate's a... monopoly - you got to break it up.
Patterns of thought, they're just that - channels. Think of it like a server - you have all these thought patterns. Each a screenname. Some serve, and others are just readily available. How often have you heard the invitation to engage a question only to feel like someone else spoke to it, and you would dogpile to say more?
Fork a thread! The rest of the channel with all the other posters are just one world. You are wanting to engage this person (this pattern if thought) as though no other context has been afforded. Fresh start, a full conversation.
Friend
They want to have more friends. The curmudgeon loner pattern of thoughy pipes up (feeling threatened?), "it's bad out there" - Now, if you want to respond, you will be looking like you are (in a sense) picking a fight. Punching the loner one down. Only, that isn't what the above text implies.
Notice the container: I am saying all this as you, where you are a pattern if thought. A world, and bubbles floating before you, all at once. How is that finding its way to the reader revealing these words this misty or drab or sunny or bright day?
Notice how the weather isn't something to get right, to find the right words around as though clothes to elements, but to connect. To adapt. What this looks to (is pointing at), denotes, contributes (involves), and processes is: change.
Between two patterns of thought is how every eye neuron looks. Before brain science, there was poetry. And after brains are gone, there will still be frogs jumping in lakes, moons rising, ocean falling, mist leaving, the scent of meadow on too-thin a garment, or it's just morning near river. What actually happens.
Where poetry walks is (not) in that decision - two patterns of thought forming one current. The fish in the current, bubbles (their bodies) release. The way fish shape themselves in the movement of the river, to grow into being held, their place in a current. Tail swished not by fish, but by the river herself - fish just stand here.
Where do you just stand here? Decide to (not) make friends. For time for them. For mornings (time for then). For all these things you (no longer) are, carry forward. Story. Momentum. (Drag. (Lift.)) Every cell in you feels weightless - shouldn't you?
Or does that not stack? Threshold between you and every cell keeps you here, between this noment and every moment they live, between "not asking you" and "telling you the friends are here," and to stay. Connect. Be with that. And you know the way.
You shape the sit, the way to stand, to be counted with all the rest, as the song goes. You be exactly where your brain is never mean. To you, mean is just a story your brain follows a pattern - others are here, to set. They, foregone, are not you.
Pause
You aren't the one to (not) make friends. You aren't the one to (not) go out. You aren't the one to (not) look in on someone, to (not) ask them their question, to (not) live their mystery, to (not) be their pause, their sill, broken thing in this sad, mad dash of a world hell-bent on mercy-killing time (love).
To stay in place (your body flaring out (desires to go into streets lick the sky like firelight)) is a craving. Perhaps "bubble" no longer serves. What licks - call it fire. This fire in you, to (not) stay in. To (not) hold position. To realize just looking is a direction is already decision: where is your sickness where the eye falls?
And the direction you look is directed into the brightest light. The moment muster no brighter moment: is seen. Lover, 3am, giggling. Turn, look at their glowing face, which turns the meme to you, a screen blasting out your eyes. The face animals make when you use the flash to take their selfies for them - on yours.
Mouths close, hygiene forms, practice takes root, patterns blow. Blow in. Catch current. Die anywhere else, as the song goes. Incumbant pattern of thought open, like an emperor. You've lived your whole life, you get this close to them, you achieve this audience, this blessing. And strike.
Your pattern's head - where does it land? Point. That is your bubble - your fire, your full theatre. Spritely cinematic take on this moment, art. Doesn't have to leave your head - this is perfectly adequate. I love it more than any enough. To write this paragraph, these two to two hundred pages of how you are, to how I am.
It's true, and they fall, you do draw sword: you feel (no) more friends may serve. You feel (not) staying in is the best-of-𝐧 call. The thought sits true, feels valid, returns sword to scabbard, and lives decision. Wants friends, goes out, wants stay in, stay in.
Revolution is what wanted always happens. No strength here, no will, no manifest - just rising entropy taking its course. Water finds that flicker, that bubble, passes it on, given thought.
Who would you cherish, given the world ot attention like mine (what's the difference). We split the baby. Who is, this moment? Write (draw (anything but think (wabble your teeth up and down on your tongue where it sticks out (in the style of wind-up dentures)))).
Current
Sometimes nuclear winter is upon us, without any bombs dropping. We stay in. Radiation (of other people's glare) is heat, generated, molecularly, metabolised - a hell. Hi, validation - you'rein hell. Stay in. Put your space suit on (the hook). Patch it like socks, like mending. They've terraformed the planet. Or this is Mars circa Doom, and aliens need romancing.
How is the world about to be, alien? Creature? Quiet (((((little) in your gole can't move) too small so cozy) yess, ha ha vol. 1) sip tea) it's great, only....
How is it? Overwanting finding level greeting. Reality gets that gruff blarg they always loved about you, their roommate. How dawn chorus comes uninvited yet punctual as the seasons. How is the season? You know, some places, it is good grammar to open correspondance with a note on the season? Be open.
How's your place's "How's the weather," as patterns of thought go? Be so invited: live the weather, wear it like word. Be here('s clothing of) this moment. Notice what is what left now what's becoming. This: having friends, patterns of thought you recognize, as friends. Copy the previous sentence into a note, for me? As you do, perform the following transformation:
Between [This] and [having], attempt (and fail) to add a parenthetical "(not)". Lose the t. You should have: "This: (no)" - listen to that "no"; Strike out the (not). It, graciously isn't your decision now, cup taken. Something in you (said no) invited a no.
Boundaries... are invitations to "no" - to know. As the line breaks. And word-wraps over column 80 (or whatever's comfortable character count for lines where you are) And you say, "Ok - sure, I forego the pun on 'invitations to know' for the sake of the readable "invitations to no,' and now there is pause -
"Lots of chatter on consent today, on not crossing boundaries, not stamping our most-fragile selves, still forming, sprouting, finding ways not to be mowed down."
Hold it - "not to be mowed down." It that a... you-original? That's a meme, construct. Mowers are new - gnu (the creauture, the gnu) used to be the "mower." Mathematically true is you say (and elide): "not to be eaten alive." To not be trampled by that which would hold their world above reality, so othered you're at their command. And they order you to know.
Claim
Ask - every mowing down, is it an eating alive? Does the modern meme serve? Or is moving down an old meme - a tired meme. What is new hotness? Is it the flickers, the bubbles, the current, the moment, that which eats alive this question?
How is that about to be? Pause it. Form that world (every rock forms), produce a channel. Dust motes form an indistiguishable space, homogenization, sunbeam come morning. Are you feeling homogenial, at present (are you feeling like the cutrent rituals, the current practices, the current accounts serve)? Feeling like this moment is a good time to thank someone for their response, but you'd like not to?
Thank them out loud. They never have to see the thanks for them to be valid - entropy rose. Heat bloomed, molecules formed, that air changed, the world's new. It's eating the old alive. How are you about to be - "What's new?"
Be... what you're about to be, now. How's that working out for you? Look for more of that. Stay, and you get more. Otherwise, look for friends. Diminutize yourself. Think about cats. Lonely, apex. Diminuate, and rejoin the group. How an old meme is set aside so another may join play. Speak the words that keep up your own.
Words that form patterns in your world. Patterns you see to live so different than those you know - they're vunerable, muscular, sure, visceral, servile, present. Intoxication went and died, clean smoke loomed, and the rhythm carried every thought for you.
This is how it's going to be. This is how it's always been. You live your world. I'll live ours.