Read journeying not thinking
In those swarms where life runs away, that just by looking at them we want to be there,
that without understanding we want to return, there vague memories wake up briefly.
Singing breezes from a previous world, intoning on the skin ages witnessing us,
breathing the pores the form which is no form, scattering through the fluids endless colours.
The brief memory is gone. A sigh seals it. Back to anxiety with petrified forms,
solidified energies, crystallized fluids. Footprints form a past lived in a previous world.
Only our nostalgia for the origin, clung to the nooks and cranny of numb oblivion,
decides to free itself from calcified museums, fake prisons of our ethereal nature.
Escapes through the avenues of the swarm. The tangle disentangles. Disorders order themselves.
And the great shape shaping it reveals infinite shapes shaping it in its own format.
The swarm is gone. Nostalgia and refracted realities too. The hall of a previous world remains,
where each fractal is a portal to its infinite worlds. And it’s still the past of another previous world.
We, from the frozen past feel the shivering. Something turned on in us somewhere.
Identity escapes among folds and portals. To a previous world from the previous ones.
Something tells us that we are always there and here only our reflection. Something confirms we are part and not visitors there.
Something else unfolds and energies parade as arrows. They are not free drawing; we neither.
They pass leaving traces of rhythm, frequency, vibration. They dance colours. Numbers construct; we count.
Complex shapes. They become from the breath of dancing energies and come from the simplicity of a previous world.
Understanding tired, we fly velocity’s nakedness. The gust returns atrophied senses.
Vertex disfigurate on us and we rest on uniting nodes. We have arrived to cosmic bodies.
In previous of previous, the world becomes cubic, home pentagonal and ancestors triangular.
The force pyramidal. Line and point are nothing else but the next history from the last curve. The previous world: circular.
From materialities, the blowing wind brings the portal to the world previous from previous where the turn find us.
From immaterialities, in those previous worlds a force which is two starts its revolution. Life has turned.
Among materialities and immaterialities a gigantic warp wraps previous and part futures. The matrix.
In previous worlds, other swarms are seen, and behind more and more. Worlds and worlds keep on arriving.
Here, vertex desfigurate. Nodes melt. Dexterity is tossed. The chimera rebels.
Perceptions deviate. Nuts and its pentagons loosen up. Seclussion runs away from us.
A lost feather approaches. Nearer, they are the los wings. Our fixed bodies pretend ignorance.
We fly again. Far, far away. Chasing our matrix. Not the transplanted one. The one that is here, there and further away.
There we went while we were here. In intertwined times before is after. Fractalized realities float to and fro.
In a subsequent world, we are the previous ones that have not arrived yet. And they are calling us. And we are returning from them.
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