I Ink, Therefore.

It’s difficult to become the center of your own orbit, trying to tease out the physics of those dark matter strengths beyond the range of weaknesses’ sight. Trepidation is spiritual myopia, hesitancy a cataract glaze occluding random eye-space over the workbench and disguising the existence of tools (or at least the raw materials, the potentialities that could become tools) within easy reach. An invisible solution under your nose is as good as one summited on Olympus Mons; an ember in hand may as well be a worry-stone, if your nerve-endings are simply too insensate to clue you in to the burn.

Is it impressive to make a man out of clay? Yes, but even absent God the Universe has done more than that, and blindly; made allowance among quantum strings that someday, halfway to a star, a collection of particles might fill itself with wind (kinetic sensation) and believe itself composed of fire (energy phenomenon). If allowed the illusion, I suppose even a snowball may be an ember. Provided there’s room in the void for a dissolving mass to imbue itself with meaningful (mis?)conceptions, to spew analogies through synapse, rolling the point of a pen. I ink, therefore.

Kesey wrote One Flew Over the Cucko’s Nest through acid-fueled midnight janitorial stints at an asylum. Which was the gravitic point? Was it the man who rounded the asylum or was the institution a satellite, auxiliary to man? Plausibly, it was a binary system, like Pluto and Charon. Funny how that thought worked itself out, actually: the ferryman puts enough weight into the water that he drags the far shore of Mortality, and their interplay sets the course of the river. Death made co-equal to the passage out of Life. And non-existence requires existence to not exist.

These are the thoughts of a caffeine-infused and nicotinated mind at 3 AM. Kesey, I believe I am in your orbit.