death of consciousness

eternal end

dear friends,

I feel incomplete.

the end I envision for this Story is still unclear. The fears and doubts clouding my mind are taking stronger b footholds onto my Soul, Mutiny.

there's no rhyme or reason to this nonsense, of rhythmic ambiguity. How can this story make an impact on others, of true resonance?

I have these doubts and desires in my mind. I aim to create a timeless story, yet I worry of the coherency in my visions and hallucinations.

I don't want to lose the observer to the abyss. I don't want to cause others to spiral and lose their minds. I don't want to be shallow in my connection.

I continue to write earnestly but often I fluctuate between too much and too little. I oscillate in-between the maddening chaos of my own inner world and reality. Paradoxically, I find clarity in the flowing hallucinative dreams and imaginations of my Mind. Am I going mad?

I am the dreamer. I grow tired and question myself: veridis quo?

you are your own last hope.

happy easter, set your heart ablaze on 4/20 ~

your friend(ly)

jakester

Immersive Music Choice

the fear of being misunderstood

Will the generations that follow understand the words I write?

This fear of being misunderstood haunts me. My poetic language is cryptic. I cannot deny the ambiguity that stares at me in the face and echoes into my Soul. I am a fragmented mess.

I do not blame people for not understanding.

The stories are fragmented in my mind. Writing this story is my attempt at weaving these fragments together through my consciousness. In tandem, the unconscious is tirelessly working out these collective fantasies that hold personal weight to my lived experience.

I am a poet at heart that plays at the interplay of life and the cosmos.

These poetic words and syntaxes do not fit well into categories. They cannot be pinned down easily, these jestered fools. The themes and labels are often blended in ambiguity and interpretation. Through perception, connections can easily be lost. We gain differing perspectives from the same words we read, as if we have spoken a different language.

The meaning is lost in the layers. It's an attempt to invoke emotional resonance, precision is not the main aim. It's a stratification of words and wordplay that can conflict with itself. You can feel multiple states of being at once. Does it make you mad?

"I cannot follow you on this path to madness, my friend. These words you spout flee from me. I fear I cannot understand you."

"I fear I cannot understand myself."

Will people understand?

of doubt and desire

I desire my story to be heard in the hearts of others.

I doubt my own capacity, my own story. Why should anyone use their hearts to listen to me and my little story?

In the Desert, we wander endlessly. In this nameless field of consciousness, nothing tethers you. If you spend enough time here, wandering, you can forget your own name.

You know no desire nor doubt.

In this Wasteland away, you wander endlessly. This is no Heaven nor Hell. What is this place, you wonder?

I see my two hands in front of me. The land between East and West looks through me. The Gateless Gate awaits us. A blood red river follows and flows. Can you get a grip?

You grasp at the sand beneath you. Slipping through your fingers all the time, the sands of time. The hourglass slips infinitely. You cannot get a grip.

You doubt and desire. You hold this fear in you. Take courage. These emotions blend, of nervousness and excitement. Be grateful to this display. To oscillate between these beautiful things is a strange dance that is in motion.

The Madness awaits. It demands you to write — write what you see.

I question what I witness. I cannot see beyond Death and beyond my own Dreams. I don't see anything but my inner world. The Desert expands beyond the horizon. The sand is orange, the sky is blue.

The Orange Sun and the Blue Moon. The two dance with the Eternal Flame of the Desert. The Day reeks of Orange and the Night resonates of Blue. I long for Blues and I am overjoyed with Orange. The Eternal Flame remains.

What appears post-mortem in eternal rest?

… … … …

Time took you away from me.

Goodbye Sun.

I sat here on this cold Spring afternoon at your grave. Under the Blue Sky and the Pink Trees.

Time is the Enemy.

Hello Moon.

I am a Monster with Monstrous Thoughts. The Everflow of Life sings to me. I daydream in blue amid the flowers, riding a horse with no name. The numbness follows, Charlie horse. You ride into the Desert.

What are you willing to sacrifice?

style of truth and hallucination

Find the scent of Truth. Does your nose play tricks on you?

Clarity comes when you confront your own chaos. I hide nothing from you.

Are you a True-hearted Soul?

Do not be blind to your own shadow, my friend. You are a good diviner of riddles, a poet at heart. What speaks to your Soul?

We are incomplete and entangled. You seek a certain Style of Truth within the Fallacy of Life. Life, reality itself, can prove to be the biggest illusion of all Time. Your own perception has the potency of being the strongest fallacy of all.

Do you trust your eyes, the mind that sees?

You aim to be a Timeless Soul but you lack coherency. Through the Memory Gate, what is truly remembered and stains the test of time?

The ghost of memory, of what was, continues to haunt you.

You are obliged to make the incoherent coherent. Piece it together, my friend. The past, present, and future you hold in your hand.

You look back.

You regress down to your former self. Regression is sometimes necessary for raising your own awareness. When you regress down into the void, of infinite regress, you deconstruct your own mind. Through deconstruction, you inherently sacrifice parts of your own sanity. You grow closer to Death.

Life is visible and invisible. Living is a sense, seen and unseen.

The struggle between the visible and invisible, the seen and unseen is felt. You touch what you cannot see. You see what you cannot touch.

Touch and see, the Key to your Soul. Feel it move from within. Observe the moments that stand out. Do you stand in it?

You attach yourself to these moments, consciously and unconsciously, to these dreams, these decisions. What do you subtly sign onto?

You touch, you grab, you observe, you see, you sense-

Nonsense.

Use your senses, smell the scent of true nature, of true essence. Notice what's within and out. The concave and convex bubbles slipping in and out, recursing one another in subtle harmony.

Examine closely and from afar. From quantum to the vast scale of the cosmos. Do you see an omniscient presence or is it your own consciousness reflecting back?

This is the Strange Loop of Consciousness.

To make our unconscious conscious, to make the unseen seen, the invisible visible, is logically paradoxical. We expand and shrink our Consciousness in sync, moving back and forth through Time. How is any of this possible?

The spirit of this time sways between "yes" and "no" all too often as this spirit is the uncertainty of the general collective consciousness. Humanity, as a whole, is never certain, always incomplete.

There lives an evil in all things.

Do you understand evil or do you turn a blind eye?

"You are incomplete— but if you eat from this tree, you will become like those who made you."

To truly confront evil when you earnestly try to understand is a treacherous path. Evil rarely wears horns, you must remember. It wears virtue. It cloaks itself in what people already want to believe.

"If you seek to understand evil, you must first trace its roots… and see if they mirror your own."

Evil lives within us all, even in the most righteous of people. We must question and be openly skeptical of oneself. What is our true aim as a Humanity?

Be weary of your own hallucinations.

the story's end - ix. 第九部分

Do you wish to enter this last dance?

You are a Ballad Triumphant Hero whom they call 欧凯杰 [ōukǎijé] given to you by the 黄河 [Yellow River].

Take space to breathe, the air between, the fire and water, both spiral. You stare down at your sword inscripted “福跳舞“ or lucky dance. The grammar was off in this inscription.

"I trust you."

The waves keep crashing.

You cut the noise. You know the power in these words. They cut like a sword. The blood flows. You flow with your breathe.

You draw your sword. The waves reflect on your blade. You feel the Soul in your hands. You swing, the ocean collapses.

You swing back, the ocean returns and the water floods back to place.

The waves keep crashing, onwards in the flow of time.

Your swing is insignificant, yet there's beauty to it, in your Heaven's Maxim.

Suddenly, a huge wave collapses onto you. A flood of awareness at Death's Door, he awaits you.

blood of christ in the east

The River of Blood continues to flow.

The inner war of the Soul wants out. It bleeds onto the page, bloodthirsty - the void calls. The recursion pools between Red-Orange and Blue-Green continue to battle. I deny this River of Blood, I detest this flow.

I do not seek violence, I do not seek conflict, of confrontation, of battles, of wars. Yet, the River cannot be stopped. You request your whole self, you cannot deny it. This violet violence within you.

Death dances at your doorstep. What are you willing to sacrifice?

You speak of such romantic, soothing words of LOVE, HOPE, and FAITH.

Words mean nothing without sacrifice.

Without blood, without violence, without struggle, what does peace mean?

"You bring a strange air."

The smell of sulfur and rotten eggs is carried from the winds into your nose. The scent of Death follows, that wretched smell takes you in, the ash from the great eruption.

"You do not seek to understand evil anymore," the Great Tree whispers.

"You seek to see."

The scent sends you down the River Styx.

post-mortem soul

C: how?

Charlie's whole world was wounded up into a tightly woven spiral, a loaded coil. All at once, in three words, dread slipped in.

Is this the End?

C: how did he die? Tell my you Shaggy Sage.

S: I cannot say.

The world around began to bleed into a deep blue. The reddish orange began to fade. The Jester starts laughing uncontrollably with the Devil dancing on his left shoulder. This was no laughing manner.

Tears began to flow, the River Styx.

The smell of orange coated with blue hues.

Mimi: what happens to us now Sage?

S: only time will tell. Time is our enemy.

C: I cannot accept this, let me make the leap to the Other. This can't be the End. The story is not over, the dream cannot end yet.

S: don't be a lunatic now.

C: what's there to lose?

S: you.

… ~ + ~ … ~ + ~ …

Jake lay there amid the flowers. He was driven to madness by his nightmares.

"Was he on drugs?"

"He had to be on drugs, no sane man would do that."

Jake didn't take drugs, you thought to yourself. These whispers were wrong.

"Such a crazy tragedy, I heard he was depressed — wasn't he a bit schitzo."

These strangers don't seem to understand. Was this some twisted dream?

Jake saw his body below him. He could not recall the moment that led up to this. He reached towards his own body, but when he grasped, he felt the sand of time slipping between his fingers. Clear beads of sand, glasslike water.

He reached towards himself but he could never close the distance. He forced his arm even further but the gap never changed.

Was his spatial awareness distorted?

Jake looked up and saw beneath the coffin. Thru the coffin, he saw faces of his loved ones looking down on his lifeless cold corpse, tears flowing down.

The River Styx.

This couldn't be real. He must be hallucinating, he thought to himself.

A familiar smell filled the room. The smell of home, the presence of warmth, the color orange.

Jake looked forward and met eyes with an old holy man. This man was his Grandpa Roger. Yet, when he blinked, the age of the figure began to appear more ambiguous.

Grandpa oscillated from young to old, old to young as if he was flipping through an old incoherent photo album. Grandfather Paradox?

Then an ominous voice whispers to your Soul.

Your own lifeless body spoke to you. What could this mean?

Must you betray yourself?

You imagine a pool of blood within the flowing river. You see gruesome images of the dead that float by. Glimpses of mankind's violent history.

You grow uneasy, you can feel the overwhelm of uncertainty grow within you. The nerves within move sporadically, creating this unbearable heat, like the hot sands of the Orange Sahara.

Hold on, you think to yourself. Your blood runs cold, you shiver uncontrollably. This panic, this paranoia, it was all too familiar.

Each breath becomes unbearable, your state continues to worsen. You hyperventilate. You cannot get a grip. Get a grip.

What is wrong with you?

Death grows more appealing than this Living Hell.

Saint Peter stood strong, the Gatekeeper of Heaven. The Golden Light mixed the two figures together, Grandpa Roger and Saint Peter. Woven together with a silver thread.

He held the spiraled keys bound loosely together like a DNA string. He held the key to our Souls and the keys to the next world.

There he stood, in Rome, the Empire rose over the bloodied river.

April 17th, 2025

Does consciousness have causal power?

I keep imagining Saint Peter with his two keys, the Flame of Faith continues to arise, found at the intersection between East and West. It all plays a role for the Soul, of too much and too little.

River of Blood continues to flow —

For what Purpose?

Blood flows thru the Body. What flows thru the Mind?

The Riddle of Dreams and Consciousness continues each day.

I dream. I envision. I imagine.

I find myself caught between two worlds. There is no clear path to Peace. Conflicts must be drawn. The Orange Flame, the Blue Rushing Stream. We oscillate and meld the two ~

Blue Ghost Fire, Red River of Blood.

I search endlessly for the Key to my Soul, always incomplete ~ the missing puzzle piece. The forms shift, the shape constantly in motion. From Dot to Sphere to Circle, the Sequence is off.

The Natural Order, the Golden Spiral, Fibonacci. The Rules of the Universe we follow to the end of Time.

… … …

I dreamt of a Buddhist Monk and Saint Peter in a stalemate. Caught in Indra's Net together, interconnected. The two dragons interwoven, East and West recursing one another.

They flew over me thru the Desert I walked. In the Desert, I could not remember my name. In this Void, I was consumed, left only with my Soul.

I headed towards the Great Kingdom, a mirage that felt so near, it was within my grasp. This Desert felt like an eternity in the sands of time. The hourglass continued to bleed into perpetuity, never running out of sand, always flowing.

The River of Blood.

This hourglass was a möbius strip, the end met the beginning on in infinite strange loop. Time never will end as it truly never began to start with.

Will the Universe ever end?

At World's end sat the Monk and the Saint. The two dragons awakened in the Cave. They sat there, together, both with compassion in there eyes.

…

40 days, 40 nights. The River led you thru the Desert. You observed them. You sat afar. Must you choose a side?

The Gateless Gate awaits. Was this Heaven's Gate?

Saint Peter held the spiraled key of duality. The Monk Mumon shook his head, no key needed, key was within.

…

Regardless, you must live onwards, my friends. Dreams live beyond us.

You step into the Gateless Gate. The moment you step through, you dissolve.