I often try to look out amongst the chaos, trying to find that shimmering string to pull.

It is chaos you know. All these random entities, colliding with one another, simultaneously gazing at each other subconsciously searching for something in each other, with the variable time. Ultimately all becomes chaos. Still there are strings that float about in front of you, elusively tangling and ensnaring happenstance, which is our main deeply personal debate on planet earth. Do things just happen? Are there purposes? What controls such things, and morally do I find them appealing? And morally we make them appeal. The microcosm of our inner most thirst, that becomes the walls between ourselves and each other. Ultimately all transitions in life bring all it’s to this alter of connection. We fall to our knees, and submit to ourselves and to god. We must include god to atone for the outside abundance of guilt and pride remaining in the universe, at the conclusion of our repentance to ourselves. In other words everything outside the illusion of our control However, can we really escape the nature of ourselves or gods for that matter? Is even chaos above nature, and its sticky tentacles? I think these are the strings, which drift about blowing scarcely and carelessly through perception. Reality/Randomness the largest piece of our puzzle, which in a moment of rarity shows it too belongs to a larger machine. A machine so deliberate it encompasses you, but it is so impossible to hear the churning of its gears. Its motion takes generations, it goals millennia, and one good thought takes relatively an eternity. Nature is our reality. It is matriarch to all. Even chaos and his weapon chance are but the backdrop to this play without conclusion. For all else is merely the unrehearsed actor scurrying about the bustling stage pretending one way or another for the vacant blackness that looms beyond the lit perception. We begin to wander who is watching? What is beyond this stage? We grow needful of reflecting eyes and crescent rows of teeth. Will fall out of character and the play becomes muddled without a gasp to break the silence. We question the question the purpose of such a performance, and curse the enthusiasm suffered by our delusions. The string……. A crowded stage with no purpose, why not act? Pitted in this impromptu debacle devoid of outside satisfaction or consequence, what is left but the show? What have you except your character? What script or rehearsal need exist for the fulfillment of all of the above? The curtain closes, just as it opened, so will it fulfill its destiny, but it is the only certainty of freedom mandated. The rest falls to the devotion of your craft. This enigma of existence without purpose, without direction, is the string. It renders every other condition pointless except our craft. Ultimately chaos becomes necessity, because it validates the performance we give, and becomes just another piece of the nature of ourselves. And ourselves the nature of nature.

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