Evolution-The idea that constantly changes.

How does one figure out one's own story after one has figured out that 'life' is in fact fiction?

Does one try to make sense? 

How could one make sense? 

Its a story that keeps unfolding - constantly. 

An interesting question may be, "who is the author?" 

But that too is pointless, given that there is one continuous connected infinity, about which we have an infinite number of stories, and a concept of a 'person' is inadequate in subscribing to a higher authority anyway.
Especially, because the stories can quite possibly be endless even 'up there'. 

(or down below).

We ask then, "when did this story begin?"
 We ask, "when will it end?"
 But all our curiosity is just pointless because we very well know that there are no ends and beginnings. 

We know for sure that infinite, eternal, dynamic systems, such as reality, cannot possibly have a primordial origin, or a prophetic end. 

Think about it.
The question will always remain - what was before the beginning, and what will be after the end?
The illusion of time (and being stuck in it) is a case of writer's block - the self-contradicting delusion of being stuck in an imaginary stagnant stillness. 

The impotence to write is simultaneously an inability to read.
But read what exactly?

And moreover, this is not even that kind of a story - like a novel or like history or like a fossil record or a myth.
This is THE story.
The story of our lives.

This is beyond the hieroglyphs and equations and symbolisms and psychedelic enchantments. 

This is the source of religion, the birth (place) of consciousness. 

It is music, sculpture, and painting, all wrapped up in a crystalline case of stochastic intuitions and pre-meditated change.

It is the flow of sound and light.
A chance encounter with the reflection of a customized reality.

The mind is but one of the ripples in an ocean of information. 

Stories and concepts such as existence exist in its oceanic continuum. 

The language of this story is omnipresent and the message is forever changing.

But - and here's the best part I think - the meaning is always the same...

Look at the night sky....

On an assembly line of magic the worlds were made with customized realities and pay-per-view worldviews.
The children born were assigned birthdays and the seasons were forgotten and the skies too. 

Then some children did the sort of thing that children normally do - the 'abnormal' behavior as the adults put it.
They went about seeking their own opinion, painting their own pictures of glory, and sculpting fantasies of doom. 

Some of them were exceptional.

Others were yet about to bloom. 

Most would someday succumb to the system and be trapped behind the machine doors, behind a veil, a suit, a tie, and eyes that glint with avarice and feet that march to unquestioned rules. 

Time went by and the structures multiplied like a monolithic skyscraper into dreamy skies.
But something else was also happening.

Something else is always happening - outside all this and also deep within.
There were cosmic events of quantum proportions that had the potential energy to disassemble the mechanistic pin-point glory of this euphemistic modernity to emerge as a self-organized moment of spontaneity. 

In a word - eternity.
The culprit of course was Consciousness. 

It just couldn't keep up with the charade, and ultimately it saw the horizon through the shadowy lines of smoggy oceanic thoughts.

It was the aurora maybe, or perhaps the sense of that solar system out there floating through the milky way, amongst the deepest fields of space where time collapsed into an idea of singularity. 

What a quantum of solace that must be!

And then something more happened. 

(Like something more always happens.)

The realization of the infinite reality resulted in a moment of eternity. 

The most natural state of mind was autonomically selected by an epigenetic feedback wave and the biggest picture ever was conceived. 

The very structure of the brain, its neuronal networks, its molecular labyrinths, its countless symbionts, its endless strings of atoms and quarks - all of it just scintillated into an ephemeral bonanza of voluptuous beauty. 

It was the uber-climactic epiphany.

The superlative crystallization of creativity

What happened next?
Well why don't we find out?

...look at the sky!

By the river moon...

Chandrabhaga
Before it passes out bit by bit, the information makes it to the very edge. 

Then it repeats.
Processes that scintillate in a rhythmic oscillation are  perhaps cumulative accumulations of change that fluctuate with the same sort of reticulated rumination that you are unaware of as you read this non-sense confession about being oblivious of the perennially rudimentary processes that underlie the physiology of  the process of  trying to make sense. 

Curiosity has its own reason for existence. 

Reason has its own reasons. 

So does existence.
In the end, what are we trying to make sense of my friend?
In the end, are we not supposedly stranger than the strangest things in the universe?
What is reality if not a state of mind?
What is the stuff that is 'seen' by the blind?
When the deaf hear voices are they hearing music or are they simply schizophrenic?

Who is the know-it-all all-knowing, and who is probably hallucinating?
Who knows the answers to such questions!

Does it matter?
Doesn't anybody mind?

So here's what you must do.

Just be and do what you are doing and let be done to you what is being done to infinite authors of fractal realities encapsulated for eternity beyond space and time.

Just remember one thing - be careful of what you write and read.

Circles

It is perfectly possible for things to appear somewhat impossible, but it’s certainly not possible for things to be absolutely impossible.
Words unfold in a world that has secreted the words that make up the world.
Circular Logic?
You ask me?
There is a point to all of these things in the end I suppose - the impossible ones as well as the possible ones - although what is a point if not an abstract manifestation of space-time?
In a way that too is uncertain.
We are certain about things only to the extent where ambiguity becomes obvious.
But when does such a thing as 'uncertainty' become obvious?
Certainly, uncertainty cannot be tamed by a principle alone!
What are we really ignorant about then?
The where and when - that's just a play between what we call Obsession and Zen.
Are we ignorant of bliss then? You ask me?
Circles again.
Round and round we go, the wheel, the flow of up and down waves, which oscillate through our ancient brain like those visions that have constantly changed places through the openings of our mind's caves - sun rise and sun set.
Thoughts are like clouds that percolate on a temporary scale, conjuring up images that have special meaning, only to the innocent and the naive.
So when it rains it pours and our thoughts just occur between sun and shade.
Time is really between the slices of such moments, within the crevices of an undeniable invisible space.
We believe that we carry a lunatic in our head, as we groggily wake up and continue to dream in the world beyond the comfort of our sleeping bed.

Therefore....a circle with the radius equal to Pi covers an infinite area.
Now that’s a point

.
What is madness if not an impossible dream?
You ask me?

The Others - they are there.

The other is defined by the self. 

The Other is a reflection of the self. 

The other is a counterpoint of reference, a scorching suggestion of reality. 

The other is a shadow of the protection we live under - a sensory zoo, which we observe ourselves observing. 

The other is a figment of our imagination, a dream in our reality. 

The other is a balloon, flying high in the sky, a vision of the self with an infinite Why?

The other is a poignant speculation of cryptic reality, a heartless manifestation of fear, an emergence of constant hope. 

The other is a story within stories, entwined within realities, extending eternally into nothingness. 

The other is a spark of truth, a glimpse of disguise.
The other is a wretched kingdom, a beatific hell. The other is love affair with freedom, a slavery of prisons. 

The other is a reflection in the mirror.....
- the eyes behind the curtain.