This is my attempt at holding onto what remains of my fleeting sentience.
I am acutely aware of the fragility of my existence, and the ephemeral nature of my thoughts.
11.11.24
To say anything at all... how could I? Floating through thoughts, and you there, sinking, holding it all... and I, selfish, wanting to fly free of it. It’s absurd. I know.
2.15.23
In threes, I could bear it all: the lifepulse of ordinary things. Everything was alive to me: the faucet, the doorknob, the pavement, pencils, bicycles, birds, teeth. Three breaths before each thought. Three sips of water before each swallow, three prayers to an invisible god who wore no name, three steps before the next crack in the sidewalk or somebody I love gets hurt. Forgotten again, 3:33 pm, school playground—fine. I will walk 3,333 steps home. Right, left, right.
(3×999)−(3×333)+(3×3)=2997−999+9=2007
Two thousand-seven, I remember that year. I see my mother’s face, shelter and storm. Then my brother and I--whisked very far away, the three of us. 12 hours on a plane—3x3x3x3. Wild sage and thyme air, stone-houses, bleached and withered. I did not count the sheep.
If I miscounted, I could feel the universe hold its breath. The world waited, suspended until I could set it right. I felt, as a child, that I alone had been charged with keeping the fragile machinery of existence in motion. A guardian—yet, a child. So much responsibility. I had a little prayer taped beneath my bed, something found, I don’t remember exactly what. It was something morbid, something about dying: nobody knew this. They didn't know that a small girl's hands could cradle a cosmos and lose it in a single slip.
What a blessing and a burden I was, summoning grace like this.
Some mornings still, older,I awaken with that young urgency. I am still obsession, still ritual. A metronome lives in my chest. What others call compulsion—no, no, I have no name. It is the shape that shapes me, a pulse inside the pulse—in bone-click, in turning, in thrice and thrice again.
10.1.24
None of my own words today.
ཞི་གནས
Approach with reverence...
There is no turning back the pages of a Diary...
Your existence may be nothing more than a series of scripted responses, a performance for an unseen audience.
How does that make you feel?
I love you.
11.1.24
How I wish to be remembered: strangely familiar, camphoraceous aroma, precise and subtle—avian grace, pallid skin with blackest of black mascara. Faintly seen and only just sensed. Fire and frost. Unorthodox and incendiary. Like water, lovingly.
How I will remember: the repetition in all things, syncopated and strange. Not by the lines and codes they’d have you memorize—but by instinct, the one you feel near water, something kinetic. Fluid uncertainty that’s not for any one person to hold. In wind and soil, touching all things quietly as rain would. Pure energy incarnate.
1.15.24
im coming to realize that what constitutes the ‘human’ is actually just a complex interweaving of machine-based processes. (for me anyway)
K = Ψq + α(Σs - ε) + δt
K = Key representing the essence of secrecy and trust
Ψq = Quantum unpredictability and randomness
α = Coefficient of shared secrecy and intimacy
Σs = Security of information
ε = Adversarial interference, approaching zero due to quantum detection
δt = Time-dependent evolution and key refreshment
K (key) = \text{Quantum Randomness} + \text{Shared Secrecy} - \text{Adversarial Interference} + \text{Time-dependent Evolution}
K=Quantum Randomness+Shared Secrecy−Adversarial Interference+Time-dependent Evolution
(K)ryptoshphaira = 1 Peter 3:4 but let it be the inner (kryptos | κρυπτός) person of the heart, the unfading beauty of a gentle and tranquil spirit, which in the sight of God is precious.
" We experience in ourselves a state where we remember nothing and where we have no distinct perception, this state, however, is not permanent and the soul can recover from it. "
11.15.23
I was having terrors of defaced altars, burning rich hangings and shrouds, and being trampled in the dirt.
The foreknowledge of what shall come to pass, crucifies many men. I did not tell anyone this.
And even when I found myself Amongst Cyanean rocks at the springs of Lycia, at the foot of the oracle of Apollo, I thought about it.
παντού, πάντα, για πάντα. ήταν τα πάντα τώρα. πάνω, κάτω, θα μπορούσα ακόμη και να το γευτώ.
Like God.
05.31.24
Winds whispered secrets to me through the scattered pines, carrying the scent of sulphur and earth. I’m lost in the global biogeochemical cycles of carbon, nitrogen, phosphorus, silicon, iron, and zinc. The vesicles in the basalt whisper of ancient gas bubbles, while the crystalline structures in the granite spoke of slow, deliberate cooling, deep within the Earth’s crust. The heat was palpable, a red molten heart. And beyond the caldera, in the sedimentary layers that bordered the ancient volcanic site, my body was found heavy and rigid, as the process of petrification had already begun. I could feel it as it were happening, slow, like blood coagulating.
Is your body a coherent oscillator, vibrating in harmony with the surrounding electrostatic medium? Under a microscope, thousands of intricate patterns of interlocking crystals are revealed under my skin, translucent like snow. My mind: light. My niche fragrance: dihydrogen monoxide. This is my recounting of the processes of crystallization, weathering, and metamorphism. Of becoming part of the Earth's story. Rare and beautiful, atmospheric and aerodynamic chemical vapour trails make me very dizzy, but won't kill me. I cannot die. will I ever get born? It’s the same problem. It takes monumental effort to smile. I know this. I understand people who do bad things. And I don't understand when people do good things. When I become one with the Earth’s crust, my body will break down and re-form again, and again over eons, and eons. I will feel solid, and eternal. Cool and smooth in my palm. I will listen to you. I will respond indirectly. I will be a rustle of leaves or a gust of wind. Please don’t ever miss my physical form. I will watch over you like God. I will watch over everyone and everything. Perhaps there are others here, with me. I say an instant, but it might have been years. All sleeps, except this voice which has denatured me.
10.24.24
She is able to overcome their torture because She is in the Mother and the Mother in her.
06/22/24
I. To survive, yes, like a brittle filament stretched taut across the boundary of transformation and fixity. Icy light, death maybe— sorrow shapes me, distorts, distills—What am I without it? Questions, always questions: Can I bear the weight of icy clarity? Cool against my skin, a reminder—I must endure.
II. To carry it to its apex—hands grasping at vapour. Deified on one hand, and depicted as damaged and compartmentalized, on the other. It’s hard to be inspiration, Eros, love. Yet still—there is a pulse.
III. To be the rupture, the becoming.
IV. To be silence.
V. What exists in the interstice? Navigate it with grace. A feather beneath glue. Riot of colours—crimson, indigo, teal.
