Fragmentation of Concepts

Chapter 1 : In Which Nothingness Is Something

If nothingness is something, a process can or cannot be established as nothing is indefiniteness a term placed for such matter but in the context of language it is something in which they speak of in human evolution. The will changes, continuing rambling about this such topic without the main context. For nothing is a void of darkness as most imaging but with the calculation with what human perception is darkness is useless. In which nothing will make as something is nothing and juxtaposing the two terms will intermingle to create a paradox. What defines both of them is a hopeless blur. To be derived down that hope is a void but not a void, so and thus the completeness of the downwards stairs will not fall true as insanity cannot be defined in terms. As for it will be insane as the darkness and light bend and intermingle. It is perhaps that hope is one that fills the void. This is the confusion when the lines blur, but what does it mean? If one approaches the darkness with a term, it will not be nothing any longer. Once it has a label, it is not nothing. The same can be applied to many other things, once something is given a meaning, it is not what it is anymore. The derivation of such sense cannot be absolved as well, for it cannot be defined. The representation of conflict and the other flying but chains pull and tug to resolve the intermittent disaster which approaches. The universe and the laws of physics will not be resolved as a conflict of this interest but of which time and space work the probability of manifesting a solid concept may be determined but a fictional fantasy. If it were to say that nothing is darkness, it would not be nothing as well, it would be an image, which contradicts the whole concept. As words and thought float on drift in stagnant poise but of which nothing is captured in the vacuum of one. For if black holes are such everything, can they be such concepts or nothing? Is nothing just an absence or not the misnaming of it? Will nothing be something but also nothing is empty as in the absence without definition is a paradoxical thought.

The hollow vessel fills with weight,

A breath without a form,

To name the void is human fate,

The inevitable thought of storm.

Once meaning has a home,

It is nothing no more,

A shadow falls upon its place,

That wasn’t there before.

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Chapter 2 : In Which Insanity Is Valued

If by the means calculation can determine the insanity in what person we can quote the books as factual evidence is presented to create this on making sense of a book, some may even say, I, am insane for writing this chapter but in which the mind is unstable the spiral of dreams and reality blur into an obscured, nebulous mess with fragmentation flying around. For if metal strings cannot bind, it can be to detain the unraveling thought but to enter the physical and emotional or even the mental plane is amassed not yet acquitted. I have written this for one single person whom I shall not name but they will realise if they even make the last the first change as disaster and darkness meld. The mental mind of them considers insanity to be valued as a precious thing as the changing norms interact and which the lack of sleep is lost, valued as we can quote back to the past of the history will unravel. As the wind wanders in the darkness, the conclusion is twisted and warped. They wanderer will reach the zenith of which finally it can cease to be. Insanity can also be the breath of fresh wind, and what people think of it is perceived differently. For the continuation of insanity is a tangled mess, to be hidden in the cloaked shroud. But also what seems to be perceived as insanity is also one sign of creativity. One’s insanity might be one’s sanity. What is perceived as bizarre might be the ordinary for some. The sign becomes embellished and the complications warp for the assimilation of both subjects become one. As shadows are tangible and able to be manipulated to be cloaked and the within will established as such. For within the soul and the cries of sanity shattered and dissipated as the will becomes stronger and control is lost. When a dreamer wakes in a world of dreamers, is it the dreamer who is lost, or the world that has forgotten how to see?

The mental strings begin to fray,

The mind starting to spin,

The dreamer throws the world away,

To let delusions in.

What some call lost can be found,

In depths they cannot see,

Once the anchor has been lifted,

The spirit is then set free.

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Chapter 3: In Which Creativity Has To be Unleashed

To step back to a simpler correlational subject and the mind’s rules in the space of the mind. The magic of creation runs rampant but yet the science is undiscovered as the right is empty yet floating particles of glowing light but whether or not the void is dark or white is the question. In the hindsight it is dark but yet sometimes it is white for creation to happen, the place where things begin. For things apparate in the twist, driven as something akin to mad, for the right has no sense of normal or of control as strange creatures flutter about. As things cannot be controlled and all is to be in the whirlwind of shape and color is the truth which sparks the interspecial discovery. Creativity is like a light that cannot be snuffed, as one could say thinking is creativity, for things that weren’t appearing were appearing. As creativity is synonymous with creation it depends on it all. The light is to grow for them all have inner wishes of supremacy or such as this the suggestion planted or if stories they create and influence such for stories blossom into inspiration. Akin to this very consequence. The possibilities stretch and reach yet are tamed to the slightest but prowl at night and in the shadows, linked to the previous chapter, flowing. It is always variegated. The synonymity has blended with the tinkling of pure indefinite sound as it is the river of memories that finds but everything and everyone has the same but slightly different but not that pattern of light. It grows and and strengthens in the everchanging convolution of colors and shapes. Nothing cannot be made and the world of dreams and light merge into a symbolism of pure creativity. For it must be tamed and controlled and so all can come to fruition.

A blank, free canvas,

Where paint splatters and fly,

Anything can be created,

Beneath the changing sky.

Ideas blossom into flowers,

In gardens made of thought,

But leave it too long,

And concepts start to blot.

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Chapter 4 : In Which The Truth Is Never The Truth

The clarity of things, sparkling, pure yet innocent, like a shard of mirror or glass, is what dissolves in water for what is the truth will never be the truth. What is the truth? Is a question no one knows, for there is no truth, to answer all, it is a warping twisted circular pattern that is always ephemeral. The analysis shall now take a perspicacious look at such matters that cannot be defined as it is the timeline which zooms into the end of the past but not the tail, for the concepts float ubiquitously and never in the mist one desires. The true answer, the truth of the truth is another concept that is too effulgent to be entertained at this present state. As one tries to grasp and claim the truth, it will change its shape. Every attempt will alter its form, leading to no definite truth at all. At the matter, solved but not correct, as this book may be anachronistic, the timeline must be reset but history has too many turns to be spoken of in this contractionary conflict. The vapour rises, just to fall once more, the teardrop shaped crystal shimmering, in the light as the fame does not die. The twisted grey darkened mist is not the solution as the perspective is a kaleidoscope of faceted truth in the eyes of the beholder. The perspective and the unknown factor are too deep in this formulaic function so maybe the truth will be discovered soon, foreseeably. The shards of truth are the shards of the broken mirror, it is perspective and reflections, rearranged many times. They all seem to be correct, but none of them contain the whole. Yet the turquoise yet glassy appearance is reflected, bending and the sense cannot be decided. As people exist, too many perspectives are together and it cannot be fused together, each piece is different, answering yet not at the same time. Perhaps, there is the truth of everything and it is a slight possibility for it to exist. The answer is still too complex, as clarity turns to interpretation and one sees an illusion, but neither are wrong. Perhaps it was meant to be viewed as a single piece separately, but the answer is unreachable, but the world shall never know, at least, for now.

A shard of mirror in one’s hand,

Reflect a broken sun,

The lines drawn across the sand,

Are gone before they’re done.

The more you grasp, the more that slips,

A kaleidoscope of lies,

A taste of truth across the lips,

When conviction finally dies.