Notes From the Edge of a Moment

Of course we fail. Of course we lose track; fall short.

It doesn't matter that we can't hack it. It doesn't matter that we fail.

That's the beauty of it.

You're never out of contact. None of us are.

We are all touched at all times. We are all in contact. We are all touching at all times. Air, earth, clothes and sweat and dust, pavement, people, sound and light. Always.

The fact that anyone feels totally abandoned, absolutely alone, is only demonstrative of the ease of pessimism. Pessimism is only easy, because we, without thinking to do so, fight contstantly against optimism, against pleasure. It's easier to think or speak of pessimistic instances, of bad times and miserable moments, because we aren't actively fighting a recognition of them the way we are pleasure.

Feel everything that's touching your body right now. Feel the movement of the air, or the stillness and weight, feel what you're sitting on, or how cloth folds against your form, the moisture in your mouth, the air up your nostrils, every hair, pore, and inch of skin. That, in conjunction with every other sensory apparatus you've got, is your private download of the world.

Loneliness is indicative and demosntrative of our predetermined tendency towards assholish interaction with the world. Assholish denial of the world. Assholish tendency to a denial that we are the world, because some song made the sentiment sound inane, or because we want to like or dislike, to have binarism implicit, explicit, and true, and the massive perpetual flux of the world's constancy, of our perceptual intake and interaction isn't any more or less personal than it is universal.

We've spent most of our lives learning to ignore contact, to forget sensations as soon as they are, to pretend we aren't at all times feeling, smelling, hearing, tasting and seeing. We have electromagnetic sensory capacity and we ignore it! There is always something touching your thighs, something pressed against your elbows and your forehead, hitting your eyes at the speed of light and the speed of air and the speed of whatever else you touch your eyes with, and we teach ourselves to ignore it as quick as we can. At the speed of lies. Ambient scents, atmospheric sounds.

The sound of your gut processing dinner, the shifting pressures of your lower intestine, of tendons and cartilage, the flashes, flickers, patterns and presences when you close your eyes? As real as the breeze on your face, the siren out the window and down in the distance.

You have the weight of the sky on you at all times. The world, above, below, and beside is wrapped around you. At all times.

That we will eventually fall short is no reason to shoot towards that failure. Only nothing is impossible. Maybe. It's probably worth looking into that, actually. Interesting diversion even if it doesn't net us nothing.

Admit to every bit of sensation you experience. Admit to the whole of a moment's intake, experience, and information.

And then, maybe in six weeks or so, we can all go out, dig up some gnostics, and kick their corpses for fucking hoaxing us. Or, y'know, we could try being appreciative. We could be proud of our state, thankful for it, or just content of the constancy and the chance.

We could just try being kind. Interesting diversion, even if it doesn't net us nothing.