“Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.” – Philip K Dick

Anyways anyways, always eventually. The mechanical organic rife with domestic inflection. A lake house with power lines all the way out, the mall abandoned. Functional opposites though nearly symbiotic and locked in temporal constraints and fighting stasis. No, not literally. Absent any resistance, forceful forces and track bound objects reach their destinations.

For a moment free. Gravity defines the rest. A forceful stop. Four days of pain before seeing a doctor. Four more weeks without rest after that. Rapid impaction rather than wear, leading to structural deficiency. Water dirt skeletal death.

This now, a glimpse of gleaming victory and machine eclipsing the sun, casting shadows on the field.

 . In the beginning, there was no word, it was not the beginning, but a mark placed by us at the near limit of our consciousness and bravery. Grafting our understanding of benevolence to an unreachable other, we performed contortions to demonstrate purpose in creation. With our most vigorous tool, the word, we imagined beginning. The measurement is solely ours, a smoot, completely reflective of ourselves. For the real beginning, the first cause if we want to give it intention, towers over us and we in its shadow only know mystery.

Lacking understanding of their circumstance then clothed and imprinted by caretakers, maturing humans bear suppositions that their selfhood is a manifestation of choice instead of the product of nakedness and  functional genitalia. The wet ground that sprouts is vulnerable to too much water, too much choking dirt. The mud in perpetual motion with our gut, rooted in mutuality of purpose. To birth this. Mangroves at the edge turning sediment to soil.