The Singularity

Two worlds collide like atoms, a nuclear explosion. The world opens, time begins.
The start, gestured motions become patterns. Patterns metaphors; meanings embed in the blink of an eye.

Pupils dilate, a story is told. A finger twitches, the crease of a smile. An uncertain moment elapses, comfort finds herself in words who break uncertainty. A crowding disappears. Focus forms.

This world becomes a stage with a play unwritten. The future’s uncertainties turn the horizon into a path of choice, tempered only by instinct.

The past disappears into the horizon. The world’s moments ease into one another. Life begins.

The heart beats first motion. Breathing begins and crawls become a stride. Rhythm relieves the earliest anxieties. Knowledge security, certainty. Certainty gives way to memory and a new horizon forms. Life continues.

Soon syntax is structure; like a callous building, only the cut of a knife changes directions turned. But, in the knowledge that evolves instinct becomes empowered with wisdom, and wisdom turns to love; moments turn their eyes towards each other. Life lives in epiphany.

The stage is set and the play begins. It is not like any play written. There is no arc, no audience. The play exists for itself as the lights of the theatre point where the actors gaze, illuminating interests that pass through the minds of the protagonists.

There are buildings who house these moments. Look through the windows of the homes as you pass a street. Inside lives explode in the experiences of all these unknown faces; showing their profiles on the backs of walls.

In this place minds encompass the world. All that is thought is shared on a stage lit by the reflection in the actors’ eyes. In between the world coalesces, hidden behind stucco faces. Everything is plain to see. All implied is unveiled as we see ourselves in the eyes of others. The mind races. All is revealed.

But between eyes are patches of shade, the stage unlit. Regions of dark unseen and unknown unlike the dark of the plays we know. For we are not the audience anymore. We are the cast and crew, the director has done his work before the scene was set.

Some shadows fall between our gaze. The play, now a ballet juts us like magnets polarized about themselves; transfixed the choreography knows not how to figure the light in the motion. Embroiled in the push and pull, our will confronts instinct, knowledge sees limit and tragedy is born, wisdom begins.

Wisdom begs questions of itself, truth enters the confusion. Eyes dart at all corners in frenzy and the stage expands before everyone’s eyes. The world is a flurry of kinesis, troops of dancers enter and a chorus sings; the singularity is born. She is called Syntropy. She is structure’s vice.

Chaos lights the stage. Disorder turns light into its own night. In the eclipse of light the enlightened regime begins; the only place we find perspective is at our feet.

The stage is now awash with heads pointed to the floor, only crowns can be seen; seen as shadows lit, lit from spots of light beaming at the floor. Life is a garrison of men lined against a black curtain, staring in regimented unison down.

In the corner of the shadows a child smiles. Her eyes are open, head tilted down she walks like a toy soldier toward the center stage. Her mocking known only to the men in front of her. Slowly in synchronous motion they elevate in the same direction, lighting the ground around her feet. The curtain rises slowly revealing a landscape of mountains lit by the moon, the stars and the sky’s horizon breathes air across the ground.

“Life” a man shouts… “Life” the chorus sing. A perfect circle of light surrounds the child as the night looks down on the stage with a smile. Living has resumed.

In the dialectics of the fugue the process turns the stage about herself; two people walk towards each other. Their faces fixed on one another. They approach the child and embrace. Wrapping about each other their feet harden into roots, their arms grow with ivy and their bodies coil into a single tree. Its roots sink deep into the stage uprooting the boards around them. The cracking noise is unheard except by Syntropy as she exits the stage.

The men look and see the warping. Fixated in awe they wonder at the passion that they witness. The tree no longer looks with light but, emits its glow beckoning the men to join it in living.

The night takes a breath inward and exhales cool motion pushing the men forward. As they move toward the tree the ground shifts under the men’s feet revealing the the stars below. The performance is hurtling through space. The men move slowly as if in a dream toward the tree. Desperate to find a hold their arms outstretched, balancing them. As they reach the tree Topos is known.

And the men look outward. As they do they point at the sky. Around them space is filled with millions of stages in the distance. Worlds become plays unwritten. The future’s uncertainties turn the horizon into a paths of choices, tempered only by the instincts of all the worlds forming. This place is no longer lit by the men but by the constant gaze of the moon as all look outward.

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