Thinking

An assemblage. A body without organs. Moving as they and it do together.

The hands that grasp are grasped themselves.

Thinking, it directs the limbs. Moving, it registers movement. Standing, it thinks nothing of the viscera of that position; of the contortions of each muscle. It stands, and the existent fades.

Ensouled, enraptured, enveloped. No. Embodied, instantiated! Wrong again. Neither? No. Both? Not quite.

All this bio-metaphysics, this dialectical undertaking, this moving toward that which shrinks away upon approach. The pride of Icarus. The death of many.

But what to do? Remain as such? Move for nothing, toward nothing! It is, likewise, untenable.

There are no trodden paths. Its all been done. My thoughts escape me. I’m going to sleep.

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