beyond written thought?

How close/far to the truth can we get?

How many ways can we get to the truth?

I am overwhelmed with so many percepts and of alluring ideas. I want to explore all these differing pathways. They rotate, bend, and can be seen through many fruitful angles. But when you try to collapse these thoughts, these trees of thoughts into a single dimensional frame, it's difficult to prevent the disorienting nonsense from emerging out the surface. The flow of your thoughts becomes diluted (it feel) when you spread down different roots of mind.

You grow distant from the truth in each moment you decide to delude yourself in each bound and leap away from mechanized logic or strong forms of thought. Do you hang with the mystics, the mathematicians, the poets, or the hard rationalists?

All these differing monkeys of thought hang from the great tree of knowledge and wisdom, needlessly picking the fruits with whom they find most interesting or beneficial.

Between what I write, my mind is fried of the many and few, where the kinesis of thought becomes still and the static trickles into dynamics. I follow my trees of thought through the dense greenwood. What trail must I follow?

Where will this lead me to?

Cognitive load. Scaffolds and folds. Within each progressive step, we witness the mechanization of creativity. The rattling of cogs below provides a surface area for creativity to frolic. Is this the Way of Code?

The further I explore the mechanism below, I am led to find the parallels within my own conscious thought. If I can write beautiful prose, can I write beautiful code?

There are so many pathways in which the machine could possibly follow. Through the given formal system, we can explore and set entropy as a design variable.

What an interesting concept it is to tie randomness and intent together. An artificial insemination; to inject chance into order is a paradoxical act: a controlled effort to relinquish control. Who is really in control, I wonder?

Break prose and we turn to the poets. Poets are but free semantic engineers displacing sense and meaning into crevices, slip. In each slip we find epiphanies, a flash of insight unknown. To operate without rules of thought, rules of syntax is but nonsense. Despite such lack of rules, we hold our sense through the chaos. A place where there is no need for rules; a Wonderland. The only rule are no rules, a stem of Buddhist thought; a Maddening Teahouse.

I am lost in the woods with Tweedledee and Tweedledum round the mulberry bush, arguing over a simple rattle, such simpletons discussing serious matters through a lens of innocence and brute force. I just wish to make it out of these woods. 'Oh my how did we get here?' I muttered to myself. 'What are the chances I found myself here?'

My thoughts are muddied with the nonsense of the two fat little men. They speak out words of 'Contrariwise!' and 'Nohow!' making sully of reason and logic. The cogs of machines still stuck in my head: these two little thumbs tick in ways fiddling beyond the logic being toyed with.

I know what they say is logic, but it bends my mind in ways that makes my brain rattle. A kinesis of knowledge, of logic and inference. We must see beyond it, to intuit what's worth inferring. If P then Q, we see how easy it is to be true.

The causal chain is clear in the heart of determinism. The logic is sound. It's stable and determined. My mind is a machine I see down below me. A deterministic chain of inference? I challenge the chain that holds me. The inviolate rules we seemingly must follow in the game we find in front of our eyes. How does one go beyond the limits of their limits?

An overload of logic and symbols. Let's slow down, 'Be more concise and less verbose' I prompt myself. Did I lose you in my tangled mess of metallic and spongy words? What remains when we untangle and let the storm pass?

Consciousness fades at the edge of our limits. An instinctual drive bubbles up to the surface towards fight or flight [and flow]. 'Don't give up now.' I try to remind myself, 'this is where true learning begins, at the edge of our limits' limits!' on the press of Death.

Listen to the signal; smell the scent of honey. The game is fundamentally changing. The game has always been changing. Make a move or change a rule?

The anti-fragility and flexibility of our minds is propped up towards survivorship. Logic is merely a convention for our minds to find order. Break and bend these conventions to allow for epiphanies and new possibilities to occur.

Run, take flight, fight! Do what you must to live on, to steal another day to breath the sweet wind once more. Be a pirate. Plunder what was never yours and remind yourself of the fool’s dance. This plight is yours. What a crux it is to be alive! It bares repeating, these words I claim.

Cold logic could lead a man to an early Death. When one see's life as a pity determined towards tragedy, there is a line of reason they follow, absurd as it could be. It may be sensible for a man strifed of meaning to follow Death's trail.

The romance and rumination of taking one’s own life is a slithering taint of beauty. An act against life, a rebellious act to take back one's fate into their own hands. Be wary when you find yourself a slave to life. You mustn’t place these thoughts highly. Treat them as dirt, of the lowly and shadowed. You rebel against life to become a slave to death.

You must convince yourself that you are not a slave to your own life. Muster the courage, the strength necessary to write your own survivorship. Cut the tree of thought if you must. Harness the negative thoughts and plant a new seed. Harness the nonsense and carve it into a form of life atop fertile soil.

Life is precious.

On the percepts of dreams, I see myself seeing me. Where am I in my dreams, do you see me?

Within my trees of thought I see all these fractals of past memories and imagined percepts of the future. There are important matters and affairs occurring in my dream. Important percepts leading the abstract of the past and future, intertwined and contrasted. Sometimes serious, sometimes playful. A dream of fevers, beavering down trees and rivers.

I project into the future, looking to the past. The present becomes a dream I grow to appreciate. A distant garden I have learned to love and yearn towards. 'Tend your garden,' I tell myself, quite certain I'd shout out 'Go back!' and so I did.

I am an amalgamation of everything before me and a vision of everything ahead.

Am I more real in my dreams?

Down the residual stream, I find the slopes quickly shifting. The shapes rounded in peculiar ways, unlike the reality we deem to be so real. The shape of dreams so fickly fiddled.

Here, I found three wise monkeys. One who speaks well. One who listens well. And one who observes well. There was a fourth monkey, but he was off into space.

The first monkey told me to speak highly of life and to master the words which slip out one's mouth. 'Be attentive to the words you speak, hairless one' proclaimed he from the tree, 'for those words hang on to you in your thoughts and in your soul.'

Thankful, I nodded towards his spoken words. 'Speak well' I told myself. The leaves began to fall so I continued down the river. There lay a rustle and the winds whistled as I ran faster, in motion. Panting harder and harder, I told myself to surpass my limit. 'I can do this.'

'Slow down, hasty one, listen to your breath' sat the second monkey atop the hearty stone, 'do not be so caught up in your own pursuits. Listen to what is being offered to you!'

Listening to my breath, I sat on top the hearty stone, carefully listening to the river singing with the wind. How could I cloud myself with my thoughts alone? I must listen more carefully I thought to myself. There's much to listen to and much to learn. I continued up the snowy mountain, looking to find more moments to learn from. I was curious to learn what my purpose was.

'Examine and observe life earnestly and honestly' swam the last monkey in the hot spring, 'what you see is what you are and what you will become, so be honest and earnest, cheeky one!'

As I sat in the hot spring with the last monkey, I found difficulty in trying to relax and I could not help but let my mind wander. 'Why are we here?' I asked the monkey with a sort of tendered politeness. 'is there a reason to all of this?'

'Does a heartbeat question its purpose?' responded he slowly waving his arms in a spiral 'examine closely and perhaps you will see. Examine and let go.'