by shaun lawton
Under the mythic skies of a pixelated revolution anything goes toward making a solution. Such its been since the advent of synthography over the course of the past year, which a big demographic on the internet argue about as if in a controversy. Of course there are differing reasons for it to be considered controversial, key among which are the claims it uses up inordinate amounts of energy otherwise saved for better things. The visual terrain fluctuating as it does across newer modern devices in a technological array of screens and flashing liquid crystal numerals and touch button sensitive hyperlinks to navigate the world wide web keep us in thrall, otherwise. Lord only knows how much the electrical bill costs to run the algorithms and data necessary to keep both secondary and tertiary metropolitan public transport flowing, much less the degree to which we rely on energy to fuel our nuclear reactors in addition to our public school systems from first grade through senior year in college.
The variants of imagery have multiplied before our eyes while new configurations blossom into disguise as the vast archive of data gets raked through to match a prompt for random key point associations, just enough will do to conjoin with another prompt image conjured by the engine rolled together like a pair of dice portending a combination that cross bonds first, what you get you can keep it or delete it, it makes no difference to the algorithm that remains hidden in the shadowy realm of its circuitry. We paint our own psychodaemoniacal self portraits into our archetypal archive.
It's the great wide open undulating ocean topography of windswept wave patterns the branch out the higher up your viewpoint rises until from a sufficient distance high above as from the eye of an eagle before it pivots to dive there's a single balanced moment that gleams and then vanishes left as an after image impression gradually fading from our sight which depends on each one of us to recall or forget.
We swan dive into the turbulence of our dream not realizing it's comprised of a compounded communal ecology beckoning and warning us away at every moment. The world runs on while we build upon our empires with more fires burning than ever before while the world turns on its smoking spit. Welcome to the dawning of the new year of the serpent hacked up from the year of the dragon's final breath. Keep on pedaling forward together for now our feet are attached to the sandalwood platforms which turn and revolve a much greater set of gears than we'd been accustomed to before.
This is the year we are collectively shifting the gears together to reach another level higher than our memory serves to recall our race having ever reached before. This is the year we plunge headlong forward as a species in our madcap race around the clock maintaining the quality of lives we each built up for ourselves. We're all in this together after all and the incoming tides of information are getting to be a byte too much for us to process.
Like any other year that came before it, this is the year we grow another stage into the setting sunset of our developing lives, with old platforms crumbling out from under our feet even as we take another step toward the next rising platform which will survive long enough for us to make the next consecutive step, climbing a set of stairs manifesting out of thin air and crumbling to dust behind us, nevertheless propelling us forward and upward higher than ever before.
The question as to the justification for any endeavor's reliance on an inordinate overabundance of energy being one that's aimed at ensuring we're not being unnecessarily wasteful comes naturally when new technologies emerge which require gigatons of processing energy to execute; that said, by what means or to what ends our final reserve tank of energy gets spent upon doesn't really seem to matter much, from my perspective and where I happen to sit, stand or float alone, or not, in space or dream, because I already know that nothing ever remains as it seems, by definition practically, we are only real in defiance of oblivion, as near or far as I can tell, while we yet live to do so. Welcome to the home stretch of our demise, along the slipstream of ever shifting gears, which some maintain began on the day we were born, yet I remain in oblique defiance of, considering that I may have not finished being born, and besides; I'm interested in prolonging my experiment in sentient pain, to see if the consequential pleasure can also be maintained. I'm having fun here, and that's coming from someone whose own personal tragedies remain far too intense for sharing in any possible way we deem to be civil, here. All I think to know is, that I've emerged from the traumatic incidents scarred, but smarter and stronger with a renewed faith in something I can explain perfectly well, without having to really understand it myself. The faith remains strong in me as a sort of trust in the as-yet-to-be-fully-explored unknown, into which we've all been headlong flung, and which as of the occasion of this writing, still holds true, to the best of my capacity to observe and relate.
The year of the shifting gears is about to be here, and even though you can say it's yet another one for whom the shifting has been done and must continue by all means including both you and me and all sets of families throughout the working, modern world. Together we comprise a glittering terrain of nighttime lights like a carpet of jewels twinkling in the night. Deep in space nestled in our blue jewel of a home, knowing all beings in the cosmos share being alone, sensing the deep wonder of the existence as of a stillness not to be interrupted
until now.
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