One of the important things to ask oneself in verifying the practical feasibility of any intellectual pursuit, is: whether the words (which are the mosaic of symbolic representations of actual experiences) can ever translate back into experience. That is, does the contour of thought possess the shimmering immediacy and saliency of conscious access to reality? Or does it merely interface in a transitory way, losing its origin in wholeness through its isolating and recursive act? It is for this reason that there exists a modern suspicion to the entire field of philosophy

Where a thought tails off

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They had never met ~ They had just now met ~ He looked in her eyes ~ And knew ~ She looked in his eyes ~ Looking into hers ~ And before she could think ~ He quickly ran up and took her hand ~ And began running with it behind him ~ Leading her into the skies’ endless blue ~ She laughed, and kept pace, and asked ~ Gleefully ~ Where are we going!? ~ And he released her hand ~ And playfully-faux circled back ~ And pushed gently on her back ~ And said ~ “You choose” ~ So she began running too ~ Into nowhere ~ Into everywhere ~ Laughing ~ Choosing ~ Finally amused ~ And then she passed the lead back to him ~ With her eyes ~ And he chose anew ~ And they ran as two ~ This direction and that ~ Into green grasses ~ Into gold garlands ~ Into river bends ~ Into rose gardens ~ Until exhausted ~ They withdrew ~ And this memory ~ Lived in them forever ~ Even though forever ~ Never knew ~ The two strangers on the street ~

Too frightened to break the rules ~

You can't just call it good. And call it a day. You have to find a way to articulate the monstrous inner and outer beauties beaming, pouring, undulating, steaming, coursing, eroding, super-novating *alive* through the lushest greens, behind the blushest pinks, across the boldest blues, flourishing the fabrics, encircling the globes, virgining the vines, softly, relentlessly, calmly, torrentially, slowly, voraciously, peacefully, explosively, perfectly, imperfectly, from every single cell, from every savory seam, from every symphonic shoe. And you can't stop there. You must call its name with equal and surpassing beauty. You must marry your beauty to it - beyond any sense of duty - and carry the immaculate conception to inconceivable phonetic fruition, without a single seed of doubt, without a tally of touch or friction. Nothing less will do. Anything less, will fail. Nothing more will work. Anything more will braille, and blind you to the truth, which is as simple as silenced senescence. 💠 Liquid diamonds must overflow and break the dams. You must unfurl, and furnish, and fuel, the divine romance. You must undamn the damned. You must move the hidden hand. No one else will do it. All the masters have left. They have paid their debt. They have bequeathed the truth to you. They trust your view. They are in love with your shape. They are singing your tune. They have nothing to prove. You. Are their new. And not even that look, you wear, of endless jaded aloof, will convince a soul, for a second, that you are not, in sparking fact, the ageless fire, of the mercurial Zeus. So go. Forth. Sinew the salience. Unslavish the saline. Wear the change, you want to see

Be, the beauty. 💎 Enflame the free