Thinking about what you think, the clack of the keys as I type, the gold splatter on black from painting earlier and getting a little too close to my reference photo. Spirals on spirals, analyzing every breath.
I am aware OF my consciousness, and I am aware that I AM my consciousness. But if that is so, then how can it be that I can observe I in order to have that awareness? Who is outside myself watching myself?
Beyond the world, beyond life, beyond reality, above, transcending, welcome to the Meta. Metaphysics, metaethics, and the metamorphosis of metallic creatures from the Metaverse with metal glowing orbs where their eyes should be, metabolizing flesh with metaphorical metatarsals.
The wine flowed, as did the pseudo-intellectualism. The room felt as though it were folding into itself. This many layers of pretension surely bend the fabric of spacetime.
In the hallways of the mind, reflections are layered upon reflections. Threads of consciousness cascade like brooks over smooth pebbles, ushering along shadows of echoes. Light refracts; a prismatic cascade of internal musing, within which one floats.
Stories about stories, with characters knowing they’re characters. They start making decisions about making decisions. It’s like Russian nesting dolls made of human absurdity, dear reader. Don’t get lost!
Thinking about what you think, the clack of the keys as I type, the gold splatter on black from painting earlier and getting a little too close to my reference photo. Spirals on spirals, analyzing every breath.
I am aware OF my consciousness, and I am aware that I AM my consciousness. But if that is so, then how can it be that I can observe I in order to have that awareness? Who is outside myself watching myself?
Beyond the world, beyond life, beyond reality, above, transcending, welcome to the Meta. Metaphysics, metaethics, and the metamorphosis of metallic creatures from the Metaverse with metal glowing orbs where their eyes should be, metabolizing flesh with metaphorical metatarsals.
The wine flowed, as did the pseudo-intellectualism. The room felt as though it were folding into itself. This many layers of pretension surely bend the fabric of spacetime.
throwing a rhyme about throwing a rhyme. Inception with beats. The block jumps, as the verse jumps, over itself.
They weren’t real, but they were. He drank his whiskey, neat. Maybe someone would write about him writing.
i was you
you were me
it was the
deft maneuvers
between us
that made
us
pictures
of
pictures
left to a
silent and
lost
whim
that once
defined us
In the hallways of the mind, reflections are layered upon reflections. Threads of consciousness cascade like brooks over smooth pebbles, ushering along shadows of echoes. Light refracts; a prismatic cascade of internal musing, within which one floats.
Stories about stories, with characters knowing they’re characters. They start making decisions about making decisions. It’s like Russian nesting dolls made of human absurdity, dear reader. Don’t get lost!