7 Dec 2009

Reality Birch

Tattered fragments of reality flutter in the breeze like papery birch skin, revealing the oozing pulp within and exposing it to the atmosphere of perception.

This is what dries it out. This is what allows a new husk to form.

Reality is just the outermost layer, desiccated and paralysed by familiarity and thus taking on a far more drab and bleachparched form than the interior. It is constantly renewed from within; from that rich reservoir of weird and bubbling molasses flecked with goldflake and laced with algal tendrils and the shadows of smoke.

The interior is constant in its inconstancy and the turbulent mass will continue in its state of flux. It will not be stopped until every mutable combination of ideas has been inscribed in its dry surface and then disintegrated into flakes of nothingness on the wind. It will not be stopped until it is all surface, until it achieves an infinite surface area and zero mass. And it certainly will not be stopped until a more sensible method of delineating the exact remit and mechanism of reality can be determined.

2 comments:

  1. Yo.

    A combination of this and a bad day at the office has inspired me. As I am a natural philosopher at heart, it is presented it what a piss-bottle collector might describe, on Newsnight Review, as a magical-realistic style. But there is nothing magical about it. It is utterly a work of fiction. I have been mostly of late been playing Gamecube homebrew. As N Barley might say, believe. Although, as the cognoscenti will soon tell you, that mostly consists of emulators. So be it: a real PC Engine is a costly investment and a schmup specialist machine to boot. And that is a good thing.

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  2. "Just like most people can type faster than they can write, I waited in the line for my consultant."

    This line made me laugh out loud. Acres of kudos, sir!

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