Tomorrow I will not be who I am today. In five minutes I will not be who I am now. I am not who I was five minutes ago, yet embracing this change as a Wyrded thing preserves the imagined truth of “I” and continues it. In this way, each of us may become temporarily immortal, like Theseus’s Ship. I am simply extending this beyond the scope of an average human lifetime, through the same fundamental process. “I” will endure by embracing all change, and embracing the Imaginal Truth of Self. “You believe what you see, all the things that you know. But oh, you don’t know… the depth of my soul.”
Here in Heaven/Purgatory/Hell, all at once, and all of time, we each try to fix things up and heal what we can. The Body of Time. She, Great Mother of Time. Or one of them, at least. “The Times They Are A-Changin”, as a Poet said. She who is within us all; sacrificed as a foundation of our existence; dis(re)membered into the soul of each atom; into all the galaxies of stars. All of us Saints and Sinners, the profaned gods and sacred monsters, which is to say each of us humans. We are the gods who continuously tear she/he/they/it/etc apart and reconstitute… what? A Struggling to find a meaning? Striving towards something which once seemed so certain? A reason, or reasons for this joyously torturous state of affairs called life...
It continues like this: rambling paradoxes grasping at the cosmic, while hopelessly mired in language. The ravings of a lunatic, or fervent religious heretic, in diary-etic form. Notes from a mind so disturbed as to be perhaps laughable, perhaps disturbing, in and of themselves. And yet you, the reader, read on; discovering throughout, a meta-textual reflection, almost coded, yet disturbingly familiar. A poetic heresy, with deep consideration for the complexity of life. Or similar horseshit.
Measurement of personal skill and growth is rarely linear with human time. Especially when measured across multiple lifetimes. When those lifelines need not move forward lineairily in time, but may take place in the past, or laterally in another present lifetime, or in another reality and timeline altogether, the fractal co-reflections of humans and gods thereof include a series of non-temporilinear intersections between different aggregates of human/divine relationship.
The reader finds words describing their own experience in uncanny (unfortunate?) ways, despite seemingly emerging from a world painted by a madman. Or woman? Or..? The author’s gender remains illusive. A Fool then. Does it have any bearing on the story? The reader considers this, as well as various, seemingly-intentional misspellings and errors presented in the first few paragraphs.
Regardless of the gender, the madness seems certain. [Is madness, perhaps a gender?] And yet the reader continues to read. Considering the discomfortability these mad words engender in them, and the disturbing nature of the feelings that the meta-textual coding, and references to the reader themselves engender, this may be considered quite an accomplishment! After all here you are… still reading. Experiencing a sense of nonsense. Reflexively reflecting. Critically contemplating. Playing pendantically.
Interacting, as we do, at different frequencies as we move in and out of alignment, through semi-independent, yet demi-mutual cycles (more precisely extradimensional fractal-helixes), we periodically orbit through the same coordinate planes of space-time, reliving those lifetimes. Different choices may be made at different turnings, so that, as we explore our own destinies, we expand and experience new and ever-widening wonders!
It must be some kind of resonating madness. A thought both disturbing and comforting. Perhaps there’s something to it? I don’t have to *like* this thing I’m reading, any more than I have to enjoy someone’s secret diary. Maybe the diary of someone close to me? There’s a kind of perverse appreciation of reading secret thoughts, of feeling the hidden feelings of a someone both far and near.
This is to say: the dead may optionally periodically intersect and live additional lives, in other coordinate realities, based on the paths of those beings through their own multi-temporiversal helixpheres (“past, parallel, present, perpendicular, future” lives), at least when considered from a perspective that might be described as qualitatively-individual.
You may as likely be existing in another life that is contemporary with the present as you may be existing as a dragonfly in ancient China; as likely a baby star, new-formed in the horsehead nebula a thousand “years” from now; as a human zygote being aborted by one of your ex-lovers who is only vaguely real to you due to 3 years of Facebook “friendship”; as an ancient and sad elf, dying alone and unloved by his family thanks to the reified trauma of their various other lives; or as two other artistic women who, as I do, represent an incarnate manifestation of a triune-goddess physically manifest on the event-horizon of Sagittarius A.
She-Herself, recovering from a prior incarnation and death as another galaxy which lies deep in the inscrutable future-past of humankind, in a lost kingdom in what you might think of as “Central Asia”.
As Lewis once said, “Further Up and Further In!”
I guess the cover-snippet saying “An addictive, irreverent, hyper-referential mind-fuck; truly a work of mad genius. Caveat Lector!” wasn’t entirely tosh [horseshit if you prefer]? Nor the other quote: “A Mesmerically-Spasmodic, Hypermemoiric, Auto-Biofictity. Why would you read such ontological madness?! Are you some kind of a nutter?”
Well... you have to admit, those are some kind of attention-catching reviews, I guess? And here I am, reading it in the author’s voice I guess? Better than the alternative; that this “Diluvia” person is writing in mine? What? Oh… fuck! Ok, no, maybe I should just put this down for a while. Maybe come back to it later… or not. But… … …
I suppose I have to wonder.
What’s on the next page…?
I sense something like... As you address the reader, it doesn't feel like it's just us out here, but also the other selves that are you. Like the idea of experiencing a dream with the theory that the mind is making it up. Concurrent creation and experience.