The Wax Conspiracy

One is nothing

Freemason lodges, where the doors are solid and the curtains reach the floor, exist in a state when a gathering exists of other freemasons. When they're not together, the lodge vanishes into a conspicuous air. It lasts so long as the handshaking bodies commingle, share tall tales and blue of machinations and breach the barriers of each other's personal space limits. It's a moment in definition of itself.

For the raised voices version you collect the people with the reading of a will. Or the poring over of a codicil. That favoured son or relative long lost? Sure does seem like they're getting the lion's share of things. And they are. That's a truth, not an illusion of bias. These people in this lawyer's office will only exist as a unit so long as the will remains. When it's done, so are they.

The once Tethys Ocean lies now only in a body of its waters read through time travelling antics and history books. They themselves consistently in a state of constant decay. Every single microsecond that passes changes things.

Nothing lasts. Nothing but patterns. Ever more so when they don't exist.

Stepping on soft skulls dipped too long in rancid milk, you step on another skeleton's rib cage and feel the shattering of your talus spurred on by the catapulting whip of a femur smacking you into knowing. You're in the wrong womb.

One skeleton is nothing. Create an intricate pattern, rebuild a city over it and baby, you got a stew going.

Numbers are as magical as you want them to be and as much as they need to be. Once they serve their purpose, they severe the meaning and continue on, being as innocuous as they already are. No more, no less.

Life itself is a clustering illusion. A pattern emerges from the rubble of standing still. Insignificant? Of course we are. Time to turn it in.

Ethan Switch

Written on Friday, 11 November 2011

The Wax Conspiracy

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