Fractal Reflections From A Box Of Water

We think that dealing with imitation and mimickry is something schizophrenics, the fae, those who identify with the mode of being which is winkte or gender androgynous, and/or the Eternal Spirit which is all things, have to face, and whether to distinguish or come from a more vedantic approach, all is one. The voices often mimick the self and the world at reflection across a distance... but at the same time something prevents that self and this self from joining, its as if the two exist across a rift, in a duality, even multiply crossroads, and each land has a different feel. (yet they are all intrinsically one)

but it could be the world in reflection represents the whole and archetypal primal world, that of blessing and founded beingness
where the other beings who appear and sometimes course through us are different and represent the infinite unmanifest realm of the individual
which weaves those archetypes into that which best manifests the soul
on the levels of time and space

and ultimately those beings are the visions of those forces at work in the individual, who in this case is one with all, and basically Goddess

knowing herself through all existence and really it all has a virtue, we can't doubt anything, or truly call it chaos, by what the mind does is create order, because the world is chaos, and chaos births order and order is just something, which maybe is nothing. In hallways with apple branches and nature in the walls, the healing of autumn earth, the vivid presence of the land, the jam.

This is the world, this is the truth, this is wanti, where motions are moving, oceans are grooving, and all those rhyming waves.

we have gathered around, consciousness, trueness, love, spontaneity, and apple branches.

Gathered like the universes upon the ladle of inconsequence

and we have eaten the air. The truth is free from memory, free from passing glance, it waits in normal rivers, with a bucket of romance

because, love is a good thing, because the rivers and the orange lit lakes of the clouds which bellow so silently upon your shoulders,

we walk in random directions, stopping sometimes like oats, and on boats of woven twigs, they sing their song of fates and celebration. So near but so far, from we stoked on the innocent nihilism of the twinkling leaves which did lead to such paradises of quiet revelry, what did it matter, solitude, the great open plains, the branches and roots, home to friends who languished on high hills ecstatic in the sun. A village there Fordaunes came like mushrooms in a cow park where perhaps the coyotes once came and did their myosis in the wild warm rains of the summers past. Passing the flying bogey, all a flutter about the rainbows and jossling clovers, that had become their lives, every giant sprouting, from the waist from the old earth, saying oh mother, yeve born me or something in some language far beyond here, and moving the cloud and the star in a dream so far away now though, awake on the blanket, on the leaves, way out there, i sleep sometimes, catching the songs whitch trickle down more like water.

oh man, well theres guitars in the hills, theres old running mouths too there, and a hint of quiet, thats the leyline there, so i went off, and lost my bonnet, and carried a rock full of lingering feelings like the first time i'd seen the city, little did i know with my sense made of apples that the truth would come in numbers.

we trekked along the hills, where buddhas sat quietly, and the roses sometimes joked,why they where happy not to poke and we have no time for cigarettes anymore, it seems how funny how life changes, we are now so old compared to what i was, but just content with the butterflies and things like that. Hey a flying shamanic train.

The train came near and we hopped on, and lived happily ever after, finally stopping in Mir Land.

All is well!

One moment of true awareness lasts a long time.

much love, its okay, let us just chill