/lit/, your mission, should you choose to accept, is to write something about something formless. For example, what is music? What are memories? Is a feeling substantial or a flush of chemicals?
Use any method you see fit, but try your damndest.
A man sits down in isolation with nothing but his thoughts. His thoughts are a incoherent collection of images, some of which, is , of his own experience, others are his own imagination from which he doesn't know where they come from or go to.
He now ponders on about his own mind.
"What is a thought?"
"Is a thought information? Is a thought just a chemical process?Is a thought another plane of existence? Do we control our own thoughts? Why is a man's consciousness higher than those of beast? Do genetics determine ones consciousness?"
Eventually the man finds the answer he was not looking for. It was so distressing and disturbing than man chooses to take his own life.
The man's last words were
"Ignorance is bliss, Intelligence is bane."
Alright, here goes desu
We lived on time borrowed from the winter and new Summer with all of it's wonderful sweat and shimmering blacktops was a passing star, long enough to where we never made a proper and good wish. When fall came, the leaves were painted the color of soft blood and the winds gossiped softly in the raining trees. Slowly winter will come to collect it's due.
What do you guys think?
Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain. I must not fear.
Forms. Forms everywhere.
When you read something you're better equipped to write something, like stretching your legs out and willing them to grow.
That's what I think. Ever noticed when you read something, you write a little like that thing afterwards? That's what reading does to you, makes you grow a little taller. Is reading formless?
"Idhehsund," hehbfkf, "dhdshhsd"
Shdndndjjdjdhdhdhdhdhdj. Ndnjdjdjdjdj. Ndndjdjdjajkdusklaldbdjkdkfnsj. Msndjdkmdbsjkd.
Clever and funny!
Yet grammatical form, among others, remains.
I'm not sure what music is but it certainly isn't the bullshit that Sean just uploaded on soundcloud and posted on facebook. It's unbelievable to me how other people are actually liking his blatant imagine dragon knockoff with sudden inexplicable beeps that he called "radiohead influences" and are even posting support in the comments especially while my postmodern vaporwave remixes of muzak from the 70s remain in single-digit views.
I wish I had friends.
I tried, but all that came out was a hiss. My orbits pressed inwards and a tiny vesicle of black ink in the shape of an egg broke and the warmth inside seeped down somewhere between the throat and the spine. It drained all thought along with it, save the sole question that had ever mattered: was this the end of the mind of this body or the first creaking of a never opened door?
The willow wisped and wept for the Indian girl that left with the white man.
This is another universe. But is it really?
People always ask if a tree falls in the woods, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
But the more apt question to ask is, if there are indeed multiple universes, does it matter because they can't interact?
If they can interact we gain a whole host of new problems, what if one universe is home to a fellow that can visit any other universe.
Yet one universe is always and utterly isolated from all other universes.
Who wins the tie breaker?
Is there an ever expanding level of multiverses and so on?
The most important question of all though, is why do we concern ourselves with such thoughts?
They are, at least with our current technology level, completely and utterly unprovable, or disprovable for that matter.
And as such it has no affect on our life.
Which brings me back to the original reformed question.
If there is another universe out there, should we try to find it, and, can we?
Or should we try and make our own universe the best possible iteration, or as close as we can make it?
he once said time was a lie.
a lie? it was absurd at first thought.
yes, a societal, technocrat lie. another tool for the consolidation of warm bodies into tight schedules. the word schedule, he said, was a blindspot in the english language. a hole in a tapestry. an whirlpool in a smoothing river.
i washed down the notion with a swig of light beer.
he spoke as his fingers dug into a shallow flannel pocket at his chest, picking out a small box of cigarettes.
see, without differentiation by way of space, time wouldnt be. time is only relevant when disparate forms exist; that is, otherness. and what happens to the separate forms.
at this point he was waving around a lit smoke as he spoke, drawing lines in the air between us.
forms change. death and life, or for the modern we distill these principles into their essential concepts, entropy and order-organization, are the phases of a form. theres a pattern; the parabola.
he again invoked his cigarette and its ember burned a whispy arc of smoke as he dragged it across the cool night air.
at the ends we return to the unmanifest, to the chaos, as entropy settles in the form. but at the center of our little hump, we are in full order, full life, full organization.
i see, i said. i lit a marlboro of my own.
i see what your saying, but i dont get how this ties into time. time is indendent of life and death. hell, life and death are the effects of time right? how does it all come into play?
the can of bud felt light in my hand, so i reached over low to a box next to my chair and pulled out two more.
well because, he began, time is transformation.
i raised an eyebrow, swimming in the pleasant embrace of my 4th can.
transformation, i repeated. the word was fun to mouth, and even better to digest.
here, i'll finish talking for the night. look, transformation is all there is. all physical forms are constantly in a state of flux between entropy and order, dipping in and out of death, and doing little parabola things inside the greater parabola of life. the duration and memory of a transformation, that is ehat we call time.
is this a transformation? i asked him as i kick the leg of the table. sorry table.
yes, one among many.
these are only biological transformations, but transformations, or translations, in space. when we walk somewhere, we transform ourselves and end up somewhere else. see what i mean by this?
yeah kinda. thats pretty cool
then we drifted off that topic, and a couple of the guys walked up the stairs to the patio where we sat
He dealt it. He smelt it. It flowed into us, attacking our senses, bewildering us. Most ran, but some stayed.
If you want to stay and pay homage to the dealer, turn to page 2, if you want to run and try to do some dealing yourself, turn to page 1.
you pass a baked beans stand and order a large bucket. while sloppily consuming the beans with a spoon you spy another man who seems to be doing the same. He is much larger than you and you might do well to team up. If you try to team up with Fat Bean Eater, turn to page 1,752, but if you want to chug the whole bean bucket yourself and become leader of the formless gas cloud society, turn to page 10.
"It's on everything and it's like different levels - like different notes but notes that you can see."
"But HOW do you see it? Nothing you're saying is convincing me, really. It's just stupid analogies."
"You just see it. And its on everything like texture but seen."
"And what are the different colors like? Red, blue, yellow?"
"Red is like ... well it's like a passion rising from your chest but you can see it. And blue is like depth itself and sinking but you can see it. And yellow is like insanity and mania but you can see it."
"I still don't believe in it. It can't be real. Bullshit."
Rojo Cola was sitting on the park-bench close to the midnight hour, just letting time pass by, watching kids playing and running. The gentle wind whisper'd the years of his life in a wordless form, in the feeling of a lifetime close to its end.
A soccer ball came rolling to his feet, a kid waved his hand hoping he would kick it back. He did, but his legs were weak by now, so the ball didn't roll very far. The kids laughed. Rojo laughed with them.
"It is a strange thing indeed" he murmured in a low voice. He was thinking of his ever-changing body, and ever-lasting identity. Always one but never the same.
"Maybe it isn't that who I am" he said again, looking at his wrinkled hands holding the cane. The thought came to him suddenly, and struck him like lighting because of how it came, fast, like the snap of a finger - Who am I if not what I am?, isn't that a misconception - a sort of scientific unity we are looking for?" Identity as a matter-of-fact rather than a process, identity as a state-of-being rather than a becoming, seem to him, that night, a crucial mistake in what we think ourselves to be.
You and the Fat Man stare into each other's smoldering eyes as you both greedily ingest your beans. Brown dribble runs down your chin and soon there is a puddle of bean juice at your feet. You are consumed by the beans as they consume you. Power. Power. The power of gas, what mortal could deny it? You finish before your opponent, tearing the plastic bucket open and licking the insides greedily. He places his bucket on the ground in a gesture of defeat. Yet, he smiles. Why? Soon you feel an expansion inside you as the gas forms. It sounds sort of like the death star powering up. It grows inside you as you laugh maniacally. And it continues to expand, and expand, in a Violet Beauregard blueberry sort of way you inflate like a balloon. You feel your feet leave the ground and soon you are drifint up into the clouds, listening to your opponent laugh at you as you rise, rise into the atmosphere and into outer space. That's alright, there is a lot of gas in space, you tell yourself.
If you search for a planet to lord over as fartmaster, turn to page Y, if you want to look for a wise gas nebula and learn the ways of the farts, turn to another page.
Over a small, dry planet you hover, and the natives are awed at the appearance of a new moon in the sky. Your eyes close, peace fills you and the moon that is you relaxes, releasing the clouds of love from you, covering the little planet in a blanket of fart love. Years alter, the "Dutch Oven" effect spurs environmental concern, but you are nothing butt a flat, empty balloon in space. The end. My workday is over and now i'm going home or something.
I am a fullness no matter my size, I am so large I fill the air.
People gather around to witness my creation, after my creation I am diminished to a memory
A memory which can resonate for seconds or years.
I am the voice of god, filling the empty souls of those listening.
You deeply yearn to hear me in my perfect form, whatever that may mean to you.
You hold me dear to your heart, when you think of me,
you think of her; the night she came to your house drenched in rain and she smiled in the doorway
you filled the room with me. You can't forget the look on her face when she heard my beauty.