When I was very young, I fell in love with making language. Not with using words, which are the clumsy tools of an incomplete evolution out of blissful ignorance into blissful awareness, but with the manner in which one can weave any number of unspeakables into the vocalization process; also, with how beautifully masterful and unique the singular expression of making language is within any human who has explored and mapped their unique emergence fully enough to become able to express their experience as a literal shaping of the weave in which they nestle.
If you read that paragraph and it created an emotional response (several, actually; well, usually), you are aware of and awake to this infinite river of song in which we exist.
The eldest of systems of which we are aware created the ripples that, though only barely remain coherent to our perception, will continue long after all memory of an “us” is lost.
We live in the slender space, the breath that burns between onion skins. Our delusion of separation is cured by our return to the greater parade of this river of song; our unique note returning to the aggregate that is neither part, whole, nor observed… paradoxically.
This is why we know where we go when we die. We go where we were before we were born.
And it, too, is imponderable, inexpressible.
Which is why humans tend to spend their lives singing of yearning and separation and loss, but also why they largely either never contemplate death or attempt to avoid it with an almost comical hubris.
There is a continuity to that in which we are aggregate. It is both our boundary and our shield.
We would be wise to understand both before assuming our capacity to better perform their functions. Especially when we are so often holding a bag of our own making. Progress isn’t progress if it isn’t sustainable across the entire system.
It’s funny, really – the encoding process is actually very accessible once you accept you do not control it. >.<