Thoughts of The Morning

“Geared” by Adam Zebediah Joseph

It is Today. Another lapse of Time that runs away from itself without impediment or reason, never allowing itself to take a rest from its infinite work and take in the beautiful scenery. It is a brutally focused entity, stopping at no cost – no sympathy or willingness to hear the pleas of the devastated worker human who wishes that it would stop, just for a few moments, as he hears the ominous ringing of the alarm clock of his mobile phone in the distance of what his ear can comprehend.  He begins the daily sleepwalk. The sleepwalk into the realm of this so – called Reality, abandoning the freedom of the boundless dream world of his nocturnal habitation.

An autonomous system that exists independently of the consciousness within this conflicted vessel which I want to believe belongs to Me dictates my Fate. The functions of this miracle machine of evolution whir themselves into a slow, bleary action and begin to do their work of sending chemicals from one intricately evolved, functional cell to another in a complex network of management that the brain controls, but cannot comprehend. Gravity. War. Wonder. Names upon names sit on the shelf that my eye draws itself to as the hand stops because it has decided that is tired and has earned a break from it’s daily toil.

Any number of crises could befall this delicately incredible vessel at any time.  I am struck by a thunderbolt of realisation as I attempt to comprehend the fragility of my existence in this form on its most basic, physical level. A network simply malfunctions; it goes in the wrong direction, does too much, or too little, and my encephalon is under attack from itself, powerless to affect its fate but completely responsible for its own terrible demise. The brain that recalls the words and controls the transmission of them as they seem to spill onto the page as whatever “I” am seems to “think” of them, is no longer. These so – called thoughts would be starved of their necessary component parts, or drowned in fluid which somehow flowed into the wrong river of this complex landscape and now, ruthlessly pursuing its course, would finish the job it started against all orders and sumberge all potent faculties of intelligence. A simple accident beyond any kind of conscious will or control, and this brain, conjuring up these ideas as they translate into words on a page, would be rendered entirely impotent. Control is a futile aspiration. This body is proof of that.

That which keeps Me alive is completely free of the interference of the eternally ragged, nagging voice of my consciousness. There is something hopeful in that.

Thoughts are formed from components which have the power to petrify when the superficial path has been cleared to make way for a deeper recognition. There is so much complexity, so much beauty, too much magic in the nature of it all for this small brain to handle as it fumbles inadequately to engage in some kind of meaningful comprehension of what it truly means to alive in this place. Words are written by the hand as they come into the brain – or are they? – the activity within stuns the consciousness which has taken it for granted for so long as the words take on a strangeness. An alien quality. The terrifying notion that these words have no meaning except as a flawed system of managing the overwhelming task of somehow sharing the confusion so that the loneliness it creates holds a diminished level of prevalence in whatever it is that makes you feel scared and confused. The desire to communicate and share seems hopeful. The blind acceptance of it all as pure truth seems ridiculous.

The mind and the eye silently, without incident or fanfare, create the image of a horse inside this consciousness which has turned in on itself and has embarked upon the unsettling journey of attempting an acceptance of the vastness. The Soft Parade plays itself and the timber of the poet long gone can be heard booming within the ears through what is laughably considered to be a basic function of memory. Inside, the heart that beats blood around the system that allows the wonder of the chaos of existence to inform the random words that now sit on this page continues on, as though nothing is happening. The smell of fresh coffee teases me to fall into it’s comforting escape as my heart beats faster and against all conscious instinct the Sympathy that sits on standby inside begins to incite the process of readiness to run from itself. Ignorance of the complexity, the wonder, the vastness of it all hits the spot like the dangerously accessible euphoric numbness that it is.

I ask myself whether any of this is grammatically correct. The stomach growls irritably, asking someone to get it something to demolish before it really gets angry. I realise, or something does – “I” am simply a construct of my thoughts, which I am coming to realise really are simply neural activity which I delude myself into believing are under my control. The prevalent thought is that whether or not this is grammatically correct is a completely futile consideration at this point. It’s futile until I decide that I want these words to be presented in a way that sits within the already existent paradigm which dictates what is acceptable, and what is not. I’m not sure that it matters.

A paradigm which is no longer – I’m distracted. Hiding on the Backstreets and a piano variation that I look forward to every time I hear the song. It is still, but there is Life. Am I dreaming? There is a large gate which my mind tells me I can’t walk through, but I know it to be the place to which I am destined to go. To truly embrace the chaotic nature of the plane of this existence which now seems so free of construct. It all just Is, and this entity that has labelled itself as “I”, simply exists as part of the “It” that Is.

It is Today. It is Now. This moment. This second.

It is Life.

It is Alive.

 

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