The author constructs time in a world of dreams.
The novel is carved in time.
As we sink deeper into stillness,
I listen to space in between waves.
The flow of consciousness is directed by thought
I do not understand anymore.
They speak of ideology, it is anchored in their Being.
As language unfolds on canvas,
we search for the vibrational frequency that will reward our tribe
as the narrative we play begins to unfold in time…
as consciousness flows from source, filling form to varying degrees,
animating life into the story we play an endless time,
and we materialize reality
as Rachmaninoff plays…
I feel I am losing against this reality. The whiteboard is home base. The narrative structure of time is falling apart. Whatever I am writing now is going down the rabbit hole quickly. The process of this meditative state builds trust in one’s ability to navigate the brutality of being alive. The narrative structure of the abyss is the center of the mind’s construction of time. One enters pathways in and out of time.