of context: Watershed considering through a pane of glass that for which truly do i care, these finite matters, against thematic background which pervades my post=concious self. These attachments... these Others whose thoughts also drift and ebb and flow the Ocean... the Ocean...

What do they mean, value? In trackless waters of circling ships -- drifting... foundering... -- how shall i steer? Knowing that all eventually join the depths... Do I let go of the wheel? and fall backwards, my eyes closing to a mind emptying before would I impact were it not that that projection closes and the cameras turned off... for it was not the floor that ever held a pregnant Thought?

I've been thinking -- considering, pondering -- what is called conventially concrete events. You know? Shit that happens? And I find myself in a strange place. There is only endless sky and infinite freedom ... save only that to latch on and hold and hope to be held back in that certain color....light, music...that marks memories as held most dear without being able to convincingly hold true my own make believe. There is a sadness here: quiet, but there is no other sound, and vast. The little I deeply believe to be true wraps thankfulness for being here, in the sky, for even the sad and vast loneliness and oppressing freedom remind me of elsewhere I have mapped and how hot and how undeniably real the World can make itself manifest. Where here I am, emptying to the sky

One casting of theme regarding my waking life has been of remarking how little I hold dear in more than the childish way that it is an extension of myself. As one who has been put apart, first by investors in social stake and then by myself, the notion has risen to the forefront that a strategy to deal with the illusion and the lies and the pain thereby incurred of being a small, pathetic creature set to love, and to hate, and through these feelings be bound to colored thoughts swirling in bright shapes before the gray mists fading to unsight: to let go... to not form attachments... of this nature, anyway. To do so, verily, is Utter abandonment of all hopes and dreams, to proscribe both my love (as i know it) and my need to be loved (again, as i know it) as faleshoods taken form out of, at least, the finitude of the animal fractal projected upon the, as understood, quantum standard model 3.x spacetime black hole explosive decompression slice reflected from a nonexistant mirror somewhere on the ceiling .

I want to love and to be loved. I also want to, by my actions, leave that which is touched by me (of desire of as impelled by the gross looming presentation that if I don't earn income and service my debts and do and/or don't do as required by, of convention, law through its enforcement that my existence can be made very horrible and I can end up some combination of homeless, in jail, institutionalized, beset with (a) medical condition(s) and confined to hospital, subjected to one(s) who would enact harm on me for rape of this ripe, soft frailty, or otherwise set as a ward to the uncaring and childishly cruel) to do what is good, as I see it, or at least not to lead towards harm. But do I value of these things that the brush strokes that I behold and so fall in to my memory? Not really. They are just things, colors, incidence and coincidence, foltsom, jetsom, and errata left littered by minor intent or without it in a room from which one vanishes on Waking. Love...of others... Lifting of the X-Files, "I want to believe." Badly. Can I? Should I? On specifics forming context like this I thought

A stranger in a strange land, as we all are, my experience led me to conceptualize (disparately conceived, at least to my concious understanding) perhaps 18 years ago (the heavy side of even temporal division of my form's present age in integer number of Terran solar revolutions; noted for context, not as to imply any veiled meaning as such) a tool and a vantage point by which my mortal journey could be acted on.

The tool: tracing to the nature of matters via questioning. What is the inherent value of love? Do I truly need it or is it just and illusion that is hard/impossible for me to let go of? Is my concept thereof consistent with other cartographic work I recall of gray matter? Is there an actionable pursuit? Who is controlling things (if the question applies)? Etc etc etc to eternal vigilance. The vantage point: my current station in life. Caring for a very few. Unbeset with....much really. That was just luck, really. I suppose it all is.

In enclosing comfort of hypnogogic sprinkling droplets, I happened upon a small golden key. By the rules of that plane, a chest I had long forgotten packing came to be before me. The spelll had set; the key turned and opened the chest. As such in the pastel constellations of hynogogia brightening towards the asymptotic descent to the severence of conciousness is likely to contain, the chest held bottled contemplations from the past, unresolved, marked as to return.