what is the point?

dear friends,

I grovel, grasping at grandeur, grieving in my own delusions, groveling away at the limits of my own knowledge, of my own memory, and my own soul.

The subtle(ty) is sticky.

I cannot trust myself, the contrast of overgrown clutter of mind painfully highlights the little progress made in my eyes. I scrape away for every inch, hoping some coherence snails forward.

I am a maniac.

I live far from the Hand of God, of pure human genius, of the golden thread. I am immensely aware of my shortcomings and sins. The awareness cuts deep.

How long can I lean onto those fabrication of lies?

How long can I rely on the Ladybird of Faith and Love for divine intervention and muddening inspiration? It's maddening.

How long can I-

I oscillate and split, the thoughts bleed out. Cut the clutter, I tell myself, but at heart I hoard, the sentimentality of memories and nostalgia.

I begrudgingly hope for the numbing, the numbing of pain. It's a horrible desire, to cut my own existence. There's days where I dare not speak the thoughts that pass. How could I have these thoughts?

I hold on to disgust as my saving grace.

your friend(ly),

jakester

What really sticks?

There are days where I cannot compete with life no longer. I must outlast it, my thoughts broke in. A mortal human, I feel the primordial flame, earnestly, all burnt out. It's hard to write the last page, the grueling pain.

I forcibly feel my hands pulling the threads of my own infliction. Pain, partly a carrier, partly a trigger, hints at styles of truth, I split. Proceed on, the surgical tact. The memories return, the cold needle enters. The glint of silver is shot down my spine, sorrowfully slipping through, cold sweats of lightning flooded those bodily nerves.

I am a child, afraid once more. A deeply dangerous thinker, inevitably inherent on the frontier. Pain is a function and a possessor of truth. A gently singularity pushes through, shedding skin of the old guard into the new. Beauty is a promise of happiness. Don't you notice those beautiful little lies?

I am handcuffed to this thought. I am a slave to my own ideals, a slave to freedom.

I am disenchanted by my own rhetoric. I observe and examine further, obsessively remaining attentive to the very intuitive sensations mechanisms cannot follow. I write my own eulogy on the last page, a promise I must keep. I am a stubborn fool, too stubborn to admit defeat. I hold my boat and butterfly net towards the great storm ahead. Despair and feel, just not for too long. I curse and swear, the pirates sing their song!

No soul errs willingly, let alone the maniac.

There are monuments of good intentions that have gone straight to Hell. Neither good nor evil shall be my masters. I do not wish evil upon anyone. Be clear of your intentions, do not be ensnared by them.

You are a mosaic, a walking contradiction held together by strands of DNA and self-replicating proteins. Translate the pain. Surpass your limits. A strange paradox of knowledge appears. What ties your thoughts together?

These thoughts are heavy. They need a place to go. I feel repetitive and overly nuanced. I feel empty, yet overgrown. Why do my words feel so shallow, devoid of meaning?

My thoughts, are they broken?

I must write the last page.

I find myself on an inflection, a wrinkle in time.

One age ends, marching on to the next. Then, to the next. Then, to the next…

Laid in front of me is the journey through the end of November to the beginning of August. Through a diagonalization of meaning [Cantor's Diagonal], I parse through time for resonating themes crossed through different letters.

The first pass was a fever dream where I learned to harness my manic mode further. Grabbing thoughts, having no regard to the sensibility, further refining as the pass went on.

The second pass was scrutiny, a scrutinization process following a genuine recursive inquiry of the first pass while in preparation for a big "quantum" leap.

The third pass began the exploration of the windy path, of 9 weeks on the road. It mashes themes of the first and second, yet following open fields and loose threads.

27 pieces of writing divided into 3 different passes; each pass contains 9 pieces of writing, then divided once more into 3 sections being:

In this moment in time, I am unbounded and unwounded, unwinding the spindle of inspiration once more. A recursive, tangled mess requiring an overwhelming need of refinement. I must process it all. The book is incomplete, the refinement process is here. It's hard to let go to the raw conscious of thought I hold close to heart.

Collatz Conjecture unsolved, n = 27 (golden line)

How do we stay ahead?

To ask the cruel but necessary question: how what I say fit into another’s life?

The thinking machines, they take me in. I want to play the game of games, to hold on to a winning position. I simulate the boid, a simulation of birds flocking, predators and prey. The wall of code creating itself by my natural words, creating worlds. Follow the link, it's a beautiful thing emerging.

Code is intrinsically emergent. There's many possibilities unforeseeable to our naked human perceptions. Arbitrary arborius code. I am fearful, I look to the skies, the stars and starlings. The Nightingale, can it be replaced?

This is no longer a game contained, rather, we have entered into the game of games. I do not wish to fear monger, but I am intrigued by the break in systems, the shedding of old into the new. The shift is but a gentle singularity, likely unseen. There's no need for arbitrage in a world where it costs nothing to make everything. What is the price we pay for such a world?

I mimic the Hand of God. Is imitation a bad thing?

The tech, it can easily get out of hand. It makes me want to fuck off and live in my van, to hold on what the world and nature has to offer. The red tree turns green. A scrappy little tree. How far will the digital decision trees trickle into reality?

Train, train on, choo choo mother fu-

The maniac, the hand of God, pure human genius, John von Neumann, broke his brain. We must proceed with cautious optimism, continually remaining attentive to the tragic omnisity of possibility. Feynman, the beauty of flowers and the artist friend, dimensions of beauty; why is this aesthetic?

August 9th, 2025 - mosaic

I stare into the fourth mosaic. The glasshouse shatters. The mosaics, they were never real. The garden, you imagine. You return home. Return home from the windy path, return you must! What remains?

You are far from the Hand of God, sinking beneath the flowering waves, trying to retain the most distinct memories.

I have the obligation. I hold it, here in my heart. It's inescapable. The two voices, two styles of truth, intertwined and at wits' end. I have a duty to maintain good deeds, to be kind. I shed skin, akin to none. What remains?

I see how easily good intentions plummet straight down to Hell. Such hypocrisy. Am I a slave to my own ideals?

I look around these temples of mine, temporal puddles muddled of my dreams, memories, reflections, I cry. Stare out, the strife of systems; stare in, I cannot lie. I push on the bounds of knowledge and philosophy, of ethics and of faith. I stare at the Sun. The waves, they pull me under, the sacrifice of intellect.

The two strange journeymen, they stare through the fourth mosaic, eye to eye, across from one to the other. Neither wishes for harm on this frictionless plane. No one errs willingly. The promise must be kept.

"Nobody cares. Nobody cares about Charlie."

A tear is shed. A form of formless, it all splits apart. Hold on to coherence, you reach out your hand. The Hand of God?

Continue to reach dichronically, across time, it elapses. Still stuck, the synchronic image at the Archimedean point. Be kind to yourself. Hold your thoughts high. Uphold them. No dangling threads in the end, I beg.

I have spent some time with these words of mine. They hang heavy. It's been difficult finding the words for this last page. I write my own eulogy, imagining my own untimely death. I pray no tragedy finds us. I ruminate with my imagined shadow.

My aim and intention of this book was to convince the reader (and writer) that life is worth living. To find a home for these heavy thoughts. I hope my intentions remain light and clear.

As I parse through the past pages, I try to pave the path of meaning, to create the clear diagonal, the point of it all. I grow sad and depressed, the passing of time- earnestly, I try. I cannot help but feel the void, these thoughts haunt me. My mind, it holds this depressive substrate I cannot ignore. If I repress it and show it no acknowledgement, it only grows worse. Through this act of expression, I confront those demeaning eyes. I battle and befriend them, the voices that echo. I must examine with my own eyes of compassion. I must be patient and outlast it.

My heart holds the truth.

I am a genuine pretender, a jester. Those beautiful lies, must they be true? I am a coward, too cowardice to take the leap. I have grown disgusted by my own rhetoric, obsessing over the truth. It all appears too obvious and not enough, too cryptically incoherent. I cannot convince myself, I dance with the truth. I feel so incompetent, incapable, unworthy of it all. I ram my head against the wall, the limits of my understanding, my mind splits. I am not a man of my own words, for I don not trust these words of mine. They hang heavy.

The last page follows.

…