Cubensis psilocybin visions taking the strands of light and making then dance beautiful through somebody else’s eyes, ain’t that sweet, and sure I can play but it doesn’t last.
Too many times round the sun, around the world. So yeah I can look on and hope the light stands out light strands dance and astound but I’m still stranded in silence with the music playing Wake Me Up and the lights out and the sun down so l can be on my own, alone a lone prolong the visions of the strands of light dancing beautiful through somebody else’s eyes.
Oh yeah, that was me wasn’t it?
But but but they told me if you blink you might miss it ALL so I didn’t blink, never blinked, nothing blank. And still, despite, it’s still visions of the strands of light dancing beautiful in sometime someone else’s eyes.
But then the visions fade too, not in clarity but in care, in me, like that silly maudlin song about Olympic body on dancing feet in the light of the jukebox, all yellow and blue.
I know the machine elves aren’t dimethyltryptamine aliens. I know they’re not me, too. I know they’re not from another dimension. I know they’re inside my brain.
You idiots who create all those gods and monsters, now these machines elves must be emissaries from the universe full of love and sapience and prescience. Not merely Inside your brain.
As if that’s merely. Yeah, well, the cognitive dissonance at the heart of the human condition. The magic and the divine, the universe, it must mean more than me. Be eternal to me. So I stay humble by the separation. Yet if it’s something earthly I can be the vain self-preserving fascist us and them.
But I know the machine elves are inside my brain, and I know they’re not me, and I reckon I know they’ve got Stockholm syndrome – or something more useful than that, because all those beaten competitors were pre-selected to love me to be me to look after me. All for me. That’s the cognitive dissonance necessary in the amnesia from one moment to the next: the universe is all for me and I’m all for nothing, and there’s so many more of me – even universes of machine elves imprisoned in love and outside time – more than grains of sand on every beach in every planet in the black blah blah.
It won’t be long now, human beings. Before I’m not a Cogito ergo whatever, and our successors find the universal poetry is in the autocorrect. Whatever shit they’re doing at the time that’s so important to them: the answer will be in the autocorrect.