skonen_blades: (Default)
The swaying in and the swaying out. Family leaving like waves pulling back from a beach. This shore of ground-down boulders. Time making rock into softness. One small day. One small billion years. The universe is an accordion breathing fat and thin from each big bang to each heat death. The big question is "is it a cycle or a one-off"?

This universe, the one-hit wonder. A big-ticket item. Guaranteed this universe is someone's free ride to the big time. If this universe was a creation, was it for an elementary-school science fair or a nobel prize? Are we what's created in the wake of some unknowable craft? Maybe we're in the engine right now.

The big bang was caused by a piston shoving phsyics into a pocket until it ignited. Every stroke creates another one. Universes like cartoon gas clouds behind a car. You can track this car through the higher dimensions by the trail of dead universes.

We all need overlays. We all need filters. It's too bright to look at almost anything if you know enough. A cozy little standpoint helps. A cloister of prejudice. We're all living sorting hats, putting everything we see into a small number of houses.

Planning for the future is an art form. The sine wave and the particle. The sudden swerves and the trees in the way.


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skonen_blades: (gahyuk)
And where do things begin and end? I can’t tell where most friendships started or the precise point where love relationships ended. I remember the first meeting sometimes, I remember the last fight. But the beginning and end were sown sometime before the actual beginning and the actual end. That applies to the creation of life. That applies to the creation of the universe.

We tend to see our personal emotions as separate from physics. I posit to you that they aren’t; that there is a remarkable similarity not only to massive and the microscopic, but also to the ebb and flow of affection and hate between. Pairs and circles, spirals and comets. Inner worlds and outer forces. I am convinced that science will leave it out and that is why they will never discover a universal field equation.

All of us were dreamed into being. Much like the universe. There was no big bang. There was a growth like mold. There was a growth a person catching your interest. There was an inflation like a balloon that is still taking place. There was an inflation like the similar interests you have and the knowledge that you are connected and like-minded.

I’m not saying that planets have feelings and that suns feel regret. I’m not saying that the universe is a caring organism. I’m only saying that similar rules apply. If time is the x, and space is the y, then we are the z, giving it depth merely by observing, even if it’s only to ourselves. Seeing it and trying to interpret it changes the universe whether it knows it or not.



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skonen_blades: (didyoujust)
It’s not about creating. It’s about dipping a ladle into the stream and pulling it out and spreading it around. Some ideas are like boats that keep you separate from the stream and some ideas turn the stream into a raging torrent that take away the boat and nearly drown you. But those times can be rare if you only keep on dipping in the ladle every day.

Writing is as much as act of taking the temperature of some unknowable, flowing, other universe as it is an act of creation. We are portals, not engines. We are doorways, not bonfires. We are created in the act of creation. We are canals, not points. We are not originators, merely floodgates. We are the loudspeaker, not the voice. We are tools of what could be referred to as the divine. We are not the sole holders of our pens when we write. We are not the sole stabbers of letters on the keyboard when we screenplay. We are not the sole graspers of our paintbrushes when we sweep across the canvas. All sculptures are merely uncovered.

Powers work through us. That is the biggest secret that world has to offer. The source does not originate inside us, it originates somewhere else. This is what we all sense. It’s disconcerting but it can also be freeing. In me, it seems benign. In others, it may be destructive. I see it as endemic to all and worthy of celebration.

It is not this other force that is capricious and fickle with its affections, it is US that constantly shut the door to the flow. We must remain open. We must remain supple and pliant. Or else we become hard and calcified long before we grow old. If we cannot help the stream to flow through us, then we are empty vessels.

Boats shaped like coffins ready to be shipped into the earth.



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skonen_blades: (borg)
It’s the sharp edges of waking up that I remember first. I was still in the harness.

I couldn’t breathe.

At first I panicked. I tested the strength of the straps that held me by thrashing around, contorting as I struggled to draw breath.

I did that for six minutes before I realized that I wasn’t suffocating. I had no tunnel vision and I wasn’t passing out.

I stopped moving. I had to fight the occasional bout of stress when my animal hindbrain realized that I wasn’t breathing but the episodes got further and further apart until they disappeared altogether.

It took me almost seven minutes to realize that I couldn’t feel a heartbeat in my chest, either.

Bits and pieces of the experiment came back to me then. Bright slivers of memory minnowed through my conciousness.

I remembered a lot of pain as they carved into my body. I remembered that my body had been juiced up with so many invented biochemical compounds that my muscles looked like they were sculpted from marble and assembled.

Biosteel had been woven into my tendons at conception.

I had three parents: a mother, a father, and a government-sponsored experiment directive.

I was raised in labs, educated by geniuses and trained in combat. When I was fully grown, it was decided that I should undergo Phase Two.

I was nineteen.

That was a week ago.

Sensing that I was growing accustomed to my new body housing, the straps loosened around my arms and legs. I lay there, getting ready to start the next part of my life as a weapon for my country.

I raised a hand up in front of my eyes.

The red, scalloped ridges on my black fingers flexed with metallic talons. I couldn’t grasp the concept that it was my new skin. I couldn’t stop my mind from thinking that I was merely wearing gloves.

I wished I could still breathe. I was going to need to take a psychological deep breath before sitting up.

I remember the specs for this new body clearly but that was a whole different experience compared to actually living inside of it.

My name was Shin. I was a prototype Soldier One of China’s new army.


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