~The Devil Makes Three
or: “The WABAC Machine”
Some people believe that only the things that are imagined or conceived can truly exist. Modern philosophy will decidedly state that a tree fallen without witness to bear does, in fact, make no sound at all. And why should it? Save the curtain-call for the populated theater. This would, however, equally mean that such things do not exist at all prior to their (most likely) abrupt cogitation. Imagine the powerlessness of it. Where does thought come from? What dictates what you will think? What is the driving force of consideration? The problem with “I think, therefore I am” is that that particular thought never occurred before. One thinks such things because the thoughts simply come to them. How do I know I exist? Oh, obviously since that thought came to me, I must. Without knowing where the thought came from, the answer is quite meaningless.
The question “why can’t i get this song out of my head?” seems just as important to answer as “how do i know i exist?” Why do I have to listen to “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves” play through my head instead of “All along the Watchtower”?? Why do the random firing of my synapses find the patter that causes this to happen to fall into for a short period of time? Because I can’t help it? Then what, if anything, can I help?
Unfortunately, all of this questioning, and the answers, inevitably lead to a set of giant wrought iron doors behind which the omni-puppeteering force that makes me not believe in it sits. It leads to a crystal ball where Zephora the Seer can look into the future this force has created for me. Or, at least, the one it lets me believe I chose for myself. It leads to us walking around with hourglasses in our hearts. It seems to me (a phrase i both love and hate) that from thought follows action. Or inaction, as the situation may dictate. And from the combination of the two, existence is derived.
There is nothing but static. Nothing but everything. And it is only a byproduct of its own being from nothing. Not Deus ex machina, but simply Machina. A self-sustaining anti-progressive, anti-regressive, anti-existing, nothing. This is singularity. This is the beginning, the end. This is.
Unfortunately, all of this leads to nothingness. No actions, no consequences. No gravity, earth or oxygen. We are the result of dormancy.
Ama, et fac quod vis.