opus aeternitatis
gather your brushes. oil will fill the pores of your hands and the prints of your fingers will outline themselves in cadmiums and ochres. it will scratch up your arms and if you are not careful it will touch your hair or stain your lips. finding its way from a tube to a palette to the tip of your chin. but do not smudge away the marks or scrape away the mountains, the canyons, the culmination of your years that has built on this wood. leave it to grow, to tower and homage your work. if it should touch your skin let it brand you. a line across your cheek. let it ware you. a hand that creaks to move. let it poison you. a stomach that bleeds and a mind that cannot follow it's lines. if what you wear is too precious, too valuable to be sacrificed for the sake of these things, for their truth nor for their beauty, then you'd best find the time to reevaluate your concepts of importance. how skewed to live for anything else. but if you must hold onto the ground when peering up at the heavens then go, feel free to facilitate your need to peel away your precious chains. strip from your rags to your pink, to your meat, and then to your bones. move your fingers. a death rattle. let that which shapes you shake you. let that which fills your heart overflow. it tries in every waking hour and it does in the night. what is dreaming, but being surrounded by one's self? being both man and god, in one moment and all time, at one place and all places at once. your thoughts guide your thoughts. you effect yourself. touch and you will be touched. empathize with your fellow man for they are part of yourself and it cannot be helped, nor can it be avoided. should he cry, you too will know sorrow. if he were to laugh, all things will laugh with him. when he grows old, you grow old. you feel what you've felt from the experiences of others and other's feel what they've felt from you. it is a chain and in this moment, i can feel you. you have the means, you can feel me. follow this line and on a plane of white spill the earth from the hairs from the wood. map out an image, an idea of the whole world. speak not of yourself for greed is a shallow well, but swing wide your jaw for the entirety of the voice of all existence, for it is an ocean and it's depth knows no bounds. do not be the paint. be the canvas. be everything you are for you are everything. everything that is, everything that has ever been. the culmination of all things. a touch a thousand years before ripples 'til today. every action, every decision, every happenstance, by luck, by fate, by chance, and by accident that has ever happened anywhere at any time has found it's way to you at this moment. nothing is, ever will be, or has been us before. we are the children of our parents parents parents and forever before them, of whole civilizations, of every civilization. we live on the cusp of infinity. we are writing forever. we can feel all history in our veins and see the abyss ahead of us. your decisions map the stars, literally and figuratively. you are the most important thing in this moment for you are the newest version of all history and you are the man with the pencil, carving further into the map. to think that in that importance is myself reflecting on you and that i too share that beauty and that ability and can touch the black and watch it move. to think that we are all tied, all bound together. that we are not a number, not something to be forgotten along the way, but that we are the way itself and we live through those who would walk it. all that has ever lived lives through us right now. darling it is so clear. we are existence itself, all that has ever been and all that ever will be. we are the products of all eternity.