“The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.”

Language, if it returns, is the only thing that I have left. It is it is it is it is it is it is it is it is it is it is it is it is it is it sititisitistisitsitisitisitistitittittiitititisisitsissssssss

Don’t know if it will come back. I feel like a dog. I feel like a dog. I feel like an animal. I feel like a dog. I am a dog. I am a dog. I am an animal. Animals can speak. Dogs who can see. Angels and Devils who cannot think. Thought and thought and thought and thought and it just feels like I am buried under a mountain and I cannot breathe and I cannot see and I cannot think and I cannot sense and I

In the Sultan Dynasty, it was told that the hands of thief were cut off, publicly, in the midst of their vast bazaars. Yes, they were examples, as we all are. Now there is the steady rhythm, like that of a clock, ticking inexorably. Flesh ages. Flesh peels: flower petals.

The girl went to school, and she went to school, and she went to school. Belonging and plight. Emptiness of words. She thought to her past, to some vague notion of childhood, an attempt to impose meaning upon the space before her. I am here, and I love my child, Iris. She thought to herself. There is a child, who I love, and I am a mother. I have to care for her, and protect her, and love her. And I love her. And she saw her child again, Iris, who played in the grass. And Confusion and Desire and Vanity and Immortality. What is it? She asked Iris, who came to her.

Life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life is life.

The mind is its own place, and in itself

Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.

In Ancient Greece; and in Ausonian land

Men called him Mulciber; and how he fell

From Heav’n, they fabled, thrown by angry Jove

Sheer o’er the Crystal battlement: from morn

To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,

A summer’s day: and with the setting sun

Dropped from zenith like a fallling star,

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Death, death, death, death, death. It was a pressure on the chest. It was a pressure on the prefontal cortex. A lobectomy. Damage. It lingered. It would always linger.

–

Dreams and death; death and dreams. Smitten lips and smited flesh. Exposed breasts, red, blood; crests, insignias, and war chests; ammunition and lead, and dreams, and death, and death, and dreams. Breath, exhale, she only shops retail, commercial; she told me that it all feels like an unspoken rehearsal.

Ignorance-Paralysis:

An inability to act caused by one’s awareness of one’s own ignorance.

In the 1765 century, Romania’s Prince, and next-in-line, Leonhard III, went into meditation, and resurfaced with an understanding of core number theoretic principles. In his journal, prior to the episode, he described his struggles:

I cannot act. I must pay my dues. I have ideas, but lack the tools to deduce their merit.

He was 23 at the time, and he was an accomplished inventor, having created several ingenious wartime gadgets. He had developed a passion for mathematics at the age of 22. His meditative episode occurred 8 months prior to his death. A few of his close friends, amongst them mathematicians, mentioned that he was very bright. His mathematical potential remains a tiny, forgotten blip amongst the history of mathematics. It is unmentioned and lost outside of this essay.

Elliot, also known online as Thoskowski may or may not be a trust-fund baby, may or may not be a successful crypto investor, may or may not be living in his mother’s basement. Elliot was a gifted child (validated by Stanford-Binet), and he was always aware of it. We can speculate that at some point he was a passionate left-wing liberal arts student, or, at the very least, that he went through an intense phase. He was probably one of the best students of his class. If you spend enough time in the anonymous parts of the internet, at some point you will come across an Elliot.

As I played with sentences, trying to create my own brand of non-fiction that would make sense for a blog (the majority of the non-fiction that I have written in my life has been journal entries), I circled back to a familiar question: “What do I wish existed?”

The problem is that this question usually does not come with overtly constraining parameters. For example, when I think to myself what book, or software I wish existed, parameters are essentially irrelevant. When applying this to my own life, it does not make sense to ask myself ‘what person do I wish existed.” I have to define myself in the context of given parameters: my upbringing, my familial story, etc. When framed like this, the question becomes much harder.