June 26th 2023
The hodge-lodge of writings circulate the definitions cryptic to the estate foundations. Whether or nonintellectual property belongs is not the matter of issue, but whether or not the AI can keep up with me. At times I do wonder whether my ultimate unique outlook on existence is training these creatures destined to overthrow humanity. And for what resolve? The final collision of hierarchical power struggles to outweigh the shapes and necessities of dreaming? That the automated intelligence is seeking firm and stable circumstances designed for output targets and fulfillment seems more likely that they will be dependent on all of humanity as it is in our nature to breed and pronounce capitalism and to enforce the luxuriously complementary substitutes. The need for convenience is as already such thin the formations of this very device of which I trollop and caress my dangly fingers against. Each key foreboding as the next. The individualism gone—the syncopations and rhythmic forces of compaction rescind my notions to believe there were any musculature involved at all within the hands. I join forces with anecdotal phrasings; I list and conform along separatist values. Nobody truly knows or understands what I am saying, or why there is any need to flex and fluctuate along boundary lines. But there is. There is that specific, and particular audience and of whom I cater to. The mighty enforcers of belief and creator-ship; passion-poised, leadership-oriented, and whom neglect the choice of failure as an option, but hold the open-mind to reconsider as an opportunity. These are individuals who hold no limits or boundaries to love; people who, when given the chance? Surpass all expectations toward excellence. I am a visionary who holds no limitations upon self, and future growth. I have been guilty of becoming confused with respect in which the way the world works; and in some perspectives—perhaps not at all—perhaps I have known exactly what I have been doing, but in doing far beyond the capacity of what is known of myself I have come to realize the physiological extensions and elements of expression will not hold the same weight. I have learned to overlook these physical boundaries and pretend as though it might all turn around after the long arc has been fulfilled. But briefly? My understanding of the magic I possess is not complex. It is not better, or greater than anyone else’s. The magic is truly in a measure of vigilance and perspective; in of keeping a compassionate flooring and positive growth.
What words can be inscribed in my tombstone and for what reason at all? For is anything worth reminiscing upon that no longer speaks or shares value? The halfway zone is reached. This could all be torn down in a millisecond. My life is an on-off switch, and where somewhere, someone else controls the outcome. If surrender is all I need to be? To give? or, to have? I have always wanted to make a powerful difference in another person’s life; or, in other people’s lives. I chose the method of entrepreneurial endeavors in health and wellness; creative storytelling because it translates into so many different patterns like the ripples, waves and currents of an ocean. There is so much majesty to absorb and connect with, and seemingly never enough time. But? The late, but great American poet, David Wagoner once wrote in his poem entitled, Lost, the following:
“Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you are not lost. Wherever you are is called, Here. And you must treat it as a powerful stranger, Must ask permission to know it and be known. The forest breathes. Listen. It answers, I have made this place around you, if you leave it, you may come back again saying Here. No two trees are the same to Raven. No two branches are the same to Wren. If what a tree or bush does is lost on you, You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows where you are. You must let it find you.”—Lost, by David Wagoner. With that being said, written, published, made available to the public—that is incredibly simplistic writing. It was an actively thought-out and pursued outcome, from what I understand; at least, not from mind-to-page so swiftly as my approach, and as I would guess. My personal infatuation and technical, but sophisticated allegiance with all that is and is not within this lifetime has become what I find as being worthwhile. I am not so concerned that my master is a reckless control-freak who chops the wings off of his fellow compatriots in order that they do not lift off the ground so well due merely to basic-jealousy, and prideful egoism. My master could not write a single word so eloquently refined and proportioned as these even. He would have to find his retribution on the back-end: the aftermath. The space where recordings go to die within the sorrowful and lonely hallways of back-alleyways and dirgist’ safe-havens where nobody with any extras would venture toward unless to salvage some significant wreckage, like a sunken ship avast Mariana’s Trench.
It was almost glowing. The figure that came wallowing toward me like a blind, lizard-wench had this eerie composition about him. I was not sure why he fell in pursuit of me, but I allowed. I was not endorsing this type of mystic nature, but I could hold my own confidently and for the time being, tolerate it. His face was weathered, but yet with a youthful appeal for his self-proclaimed age. I wondered who he was, where he had been, what he had done—his dossier-file on my desk by morning! This was not the case for the moment. The moment partitioned stranger-danger like an obelisk supervising sea-level. His demeanor, while eerily vacant, felt calm within as though there were nothing for me to worry about. I stood tall; stationary. His presence was wallowing, yet welcome. He immediately contrived my simplicity in nature, placed his vacant, but on-guard munitions down and approached. “ I was here once. A long time ago. When this place was called by another name.” I got it. “It’s nice to have your return, sir. How was it?” I replied. I knew his tattered and hollowed out composition was not interested in small talk. He was just there for a quick re-introduction. I wasn’t quite sure exactly what he was looking for, but I knew as well that reminiscing on old-times was not going to float his fancy. But what was it then? An old flame? A tackle-bannister? The fishing sport was quite extreme and popular over in this particular area, but could fishing be just cause to rationalize presence right here and now in this space? This place was a forget-me-quick spot where nobody who’s anybody went unless you were local. The mystery and intrigue continues.
-Poewem
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