Our lives are not our own. We are bound to others, past and present, and by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.
My life amounts to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean. Yet what is any ocean, but a multitude of drops?
What wouldn't I give now for a never-changing map of the ever-constant ineffable? To possess, as it were, an atlas of clouds.
By each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.
Truth is singular. Its 'versions' are mistruths.
What is any ocean but a multitude of drops?
I understand now that boundaries between noise and sound are conventions. All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention if only one can first conceive of doing so.
I feel like something important has happened to meIs this possible?
Power, time, gravity, love. The forces that really kick ass are all invisible.