It can be difficult, looking back. Looking back, looking back.

The flow of time’s not irreversible any more than your pants are. It’s just that it’s considered impolite to flow atypically.

 I must disturb dark waters.

See, friends, my problem’s this, really: this problem’s my friends, see? An exercise in futility and hypocrisy needn’t be a venture taken lightly or in vain. There comes a point, unfortunately, at which debate and consideration become irrelevant. Paradoxes exist; they cannot be destroyed, nor do they hold destructive power. They are simply self-contained, like a mind defined by circular reasoning. You can’t get in, and it can’t get out. Be thankful you know not what they see, for it would destroy you utterly.

Reason, purpose, rhyme, meaning, rhythm, meter, cadence. All are the same, really. A change in perspective is an incredibly powerful thing- it allows the mind to extrapolate further in other dimensions than those usually explored. Look for inconsistencies- those inconsistencies show places that it is fundamentally possible to be other than you are. Cherish it- to live in that dimension is to be, for a moment, your fellow man.

Walk with me, Janus.

Incompleteness needs no common thread or line of reasoning. What is incompleteness but a monument to chaos? Calm now, quiet now. Stillness, wholeness. Truth. Light. Bright. Clear. Good. Word assocation may seem like the most basic possible level of communication here. After all, I’m merely associating words with the words and concepts preceding them. I suppose the statement I’m attempting to make is that all communication is rooted in the same method. I think a certain way, and then share it with you that you, not that you may think like I do, but that you might understand me. That’s all I can imagine anyone really wanting.

Thank you, O Plan, O Rhythm, O Universe, for discontent. Discontent, you are truly the greatest of all the muses, sweet or foul. Boredom whispers often to me, Anger mutters bitterly to me, Loneliness sings softly, Satisfaction hums mellowly. But you, Discontent, run your fingers across my mind and press at the very root of the Process that I am. Without you, O Discontent, the artist would be cold, lifeless, hollow. Without you, O Discontent, we should have to rely upon Whim- and she, with all due respect, is inconstant and quiet. Look forward with me, Discontent. Cast your eyes upon that lightless expanse of the Future.

There, beyond the cascade of the Present, beyond where the darkness breaks and knowledge flows freely, crackling and popping into existence. Hear the blaring silence. It is the sound of everything that could or would be- and like all things, it is beautiful and terrible.

 It is alluring, looking forward. Looking forward, looking forward.


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