It may sound weird, sound strange, but every bad thing, every allergy to every event that sits too poorly in me, every reaction that is a rejection of what came in, came out, or comes, every little dislike, every flipside to magnetism, every pos-pole pos-pole moment, every didn't-make-the-jump, every spark and failure, every perception of weakness, every negative response that ever flashed and burned like a disappointed sparkler in the micro-gyri of the brain, every bit of where the here-there-self-other clashes, where events hiccup and bubble and froth and flashpoint boil, it sits in the dark and simple concept-space central in the torso, as though every delineation was a delineation of an essence sitting like oil and clay had child who had children who live and work and move down in there where you can't see and where, if you could, the red accomodation of it would move you to dissolve down there. It feels as though, if the throat would just move to the other connection, to where me-self and world-stuff mixed down behind ribs and abs and skin, where the bad stuff sits like oil on water rejected by the heavy core-things settled on the bottom of the space, it could just get thrown out, picked out like mud from stone carvings or rain-forgotten action-figure joints. The immediate reaction is to vomit, as though there was some physical way to turn the flow of rejected, metaphorical substances back in their course and clean up the place, leave no more than a little film to dry and dust on the accretion of the accepted that grows its carvings in down in the swallow-place, cleared out from Svadhisthana to Visshuda, belly to throat, bottom to top.
It doesn't work that way, of course.
We will find the mechanism and gearwork to move and crush and transubstantiate the rejected shit of the world and not-world yet.
It'll work yet.
Y'know, someday.
It's tiring, it's late, and it's all far too solemn to be true.
I'm not visceral. My world is not an organ world. I don't know why it is.
Maybe it's old. Maybe it's childhood. Maybe it's not.
Whatever filters we may have, they don't filter events from a timeline farther than an arm's length awy.
Four AM is the worst of the times of introspection and philosophy because it renders any useful meaning bullshit and makes the whole thing a piece of "aren't we clever, aren't we deep, aren't we sad, don't you love us, don't we love us" and that's bullshit in itself. Philosophers may love nature, or may not, but they haven't seen a piece of the real since Phil 101 and essays by dead, declarative white men.
And it still feels like something isn't working.
It's something about devotion.
Hell if I know what.