The LOUDNESS of the destruction IS the EVENT.
The endless infinities of mind, the breaking of structure, of its very foundations, breeds light.
The narrative becomes the endless beginning of everything. The crushing, weightless impact of mind, enter consciously. Everything, everywhere. The structure remains the same. Watch the sun bathe. A class seminar should be a professor with a gun to your head daring you to have an original idea. The way they see the problem is the problem.
Brave the ridicule and failure, the meaninglessness.
The darkness is masquerading as light. The cave wants you to write its story.
Do not fear existence.
You become conditioned to ask for permission to write, to be creative, to exist. The problem with academia is everything. The mind destroys itself. The canon is the cave. You can only analyze the Structure of the cave for ONLY so long. There’s not enough space here for context. The overall worthlessness of an English degree, poor job prospects, and everything creates leverage. The blinding, crushing light of true freedom. The blushing, cradling earth, the light of things as half projections.
Consciousness encased in flesh is Spirit.
Consciousness animates all.
You have to give your life to the pursuit of happiness.
You have to write your heart out.
The construction of time is literature.
The systems and ideologies working under human consciousness, language tracks and cargo, meaning a la carte attached to meaning, the signified thingness of time. The perception of thought begins. States of consciousness are rooted in time. It is the infinite conditioning of the subject witnessing the event. It is not simply a question. What is of the non-perception of the event, of the indifference of the herd? What is a system without thought, what is a system without ideology. The negation of the present moment is literature. The initial time based assumption involved in story telling and perception requires complete awareness in mind. Incongruencies in time based structures and forms creates paradox and intrigue as well as outrage.
The language of I exists in psychological time. It is the time based structures of form. Paintings and books add another dimension to the room.
Language is an endless series of thought forms shielding light.
Imagine stillness, imagine incomprehensible blinding, pure consciousness, imagine god.
Are we not always already thinking about thinking.
Imagine all dimensions of time like waves beneath your feet.
Imagine the symbolic metaphor transforming into the real.
We are Santanero Zine. We are a for-profit literary cult. We are literary gangsters. We only write God-level shit.
Write until the end of time.