It is then when the tree that tomorrow will summon the thorns loses its leaves,
and the bumblebee falls, prey to the polar trails,
to reinvent the powerful patient engineering of lytic promises,
Well, that’s where I shelter, and where I rescue the omens,
there I drink from the Paleozoic salts, which today move the migratory herds,
those who come to the eyes without ears, of those attending Sunday services.
By nature, I approve!!
They speak of love, and my bet is more on compassion, which is a kind of continuum in a collective warp, of an ineffable equation that they will never understand.
Because perhaps love (like that image shown to us) does not exist and if it does exist it is a sum of chemical reactions where a set of hormones stimulates our syntax, and which may also be subject to the need for genes to be perpetuated. Maybe?. But there is also one who breaks this previous theory; crazy love, passionate love, eternal love, etc. that love that becomes unclassifiable. I only know that I know nothing.
After all, I believe in love.
Does the egg use the chicken to make more eggs?
It is possible, but in a global and precisely circular analysis, the plot of existence is supported in a shed crossed by the polyform reality of infinite logics and illogics, where each of its corresponding paradoxes and balances avoids its critical tension.
But, we can order them in the not well understood compassion, which could be a feeling deeper than that of the corruptible flesh (physical theory and cognitively plausible), which leads to understandable and celestial simplicity. But what if an infinitesimal were more than an integer, or if that time circulated in all directions? or love will not mean more than a necessary impulse to take risks in order to live the contradictions, so that the soul, when dying, will return with the pertinent knowledge to correct, deconstruct or ratify the whole of the so-called divinity .
For this reason, the next step opens the temporality to dedicate more time to essential reflection, and to put aside an imposed competitiveness for the accumulation of objects that lead to the void that means pursuing a way of life that is subordinated to the symbolic relationship. of the object or objects, which is useless and inconducive (a simulacrum of the society of the spectacle) for our true purpose in this brief transit called life.
Ars longa vita brevis. Or your existence is just an accident to offer a limited amount of data to accompany the equation that gives additional information to find the way out of the answer.
By the way; nobody takes me into account, since my infallibility is very poor since periodically and statistically, my failures are more abundant than my certainties.
And therein lies my wisdom; in realizing that my hypotheses are only attempts to find the truth within infinity. To think otherwise would be to err drastically and in the process lie to them. It would be, subjecting myself from the ego to an option to dress elegantly, but in the end, it would strip my limits. It is better to be honest in clumsiness than false in an inane and temporary charade.
What if love were one of that unknown design in my intrinsic astral writing, waiting for you?
So the wide dividing width
will unload its useful molecules
in this useless impertinent distance
there where the lightning reigns
without asking for their
Is when my pale measures
they embrace their designs devoid of elytra
to save the waters
possessed of salt and fire
that bathe the limits of my suffering body
without entering the first cause
that brings me down from within
the muscle periphery.
And she saw the chicken rise from the ground
a brilliant and ectoplasmic epiphany
and she remembered the words of the feathered prophets:
“before the primordial egg was the verb”
and the pyrrhic evolutionary expedition embraced me
so necessary and indeterminate
where we are more but under sheds
and I saw the grayish uncertainty that shakes my being
h = 6.626 0693 (11) x 10 – (34) J. s = 4,135 667 43 (35)
and the beast arose from the miasma
without the feminine warmth
it was in the offensive of the arches thousands of years ago
on the Cartesian line of Har Meggido
under the law of y = m x + b
and those tears originated at 32°34’59″N 35°10’56″E.
huge old stars
leaning out on the horizontal cobblestone sheets
were dictated by an ancient manual of glorious epic forms
where I did not read the cunning locks
and from there lights fall like eagles
that are suspended in front of your pale fortifications
and despite the fact that I descend without air
I cling to the desiccated edges of this abyss
turning away from the waves of floral promises
with summer mentions that anoint you.
Thus the amaranth silence returns to rock the star
and like the silent lymph
you seek to break beyond the fundamental shell
the one that you got to know in a primitive way
in the sweet rooms of belief.
The nothing, the void
hold my duplicate fragments
(Φ2 = 2.61803398874988…)
It is the hollowness of the past and the future
what you don’t have and don’t want
the illusion of time and line
so love surrounds swelling wisdom
while on the musty boards of a camp
absent light filters
to tilt reciprocal reality
that drives your transformation
(1/Φ = 0.61803398874988).
Maybe this reality is true
on this twilight island
where the already worn bones falter
by the persistent violet stings,
and there is no choice but to live among the cyclones that guard the whimsical and invisible knots
with its container meshes
that hide half-open portals,
those that I will leave like this for a while,
since everything circulates in the promised packaging.