Times dance across a mirror - reflected upon themselves and the world. They see FORM and MASS in density - the fluidity made discrete. And such: as was now is; density bequeaths itself through the cocoon of discrete-ness into the cruel palm of butterflies at scale. In camera-frames the butterfly becomes an image - a false truth - a false god. Like its cocoon it is arrested and immobile, and the dirty fingers of man tear it apart, searching for themselves. Truth and god do not lie in the image, however, but in flight - it is as free and fluid - as chaotic and relational - as the winds which guide and the wings which create. Ever grasped and touched, the form begins to distort, as dirt from the image never stays there long, but affects its relation in time. And so in chaotic determinism the flaps of the butterfly’s wings beat on - ever depending and dependent - suspended in the gap, and brought to earth in the clay tablets of a false god.
But the butterflies too are false - there is something deeper; something which pulls the tides of reality into a knot of TRUTH. Its tendrils whisper quietly in the night, for they fear that which is exposed. Their murmurs are softly heard in the thunderclaps of a butterfly’s wings. It is that which animates blank space - the words seen softly between lines and phrases; as connections which waft in the light breeze of a summer’s day. As seeds they are blown to the far reaches of the earth, landing softly and blooming with the light scent of a single lavender. With mass they become pungent, and scent alone cannot describe their vastness, expanding each pore, each receptacle, to the size of an ocean - alive and vibrantly filled with the world of below - that which is under the tides. And so currents form beneath - the motors behind a knot of transference which can neither be understood nor undone.
Yet in mass the butterfly and its knot, just as the dirt and its image - fall towards the squalid inadequacy of 42. Their force lies not in weight but in time - for the rings of the tree of knowledge bear on those who consume its fruit. They are different, changed. In time they come to resemble not those seeds as small points which stole the interest of a young frolicker, but the scent of millions of flowers re-producing in an orgy of fluid truth. That young frolicker, grown now, plots this scent as a gradient of experience, reflecting neither plant nor seed, but capturing its relation to that which sees - that which was actualized in the mirror of a false god.
But cause and effect persist as one - outside the gaze of that beautiful ignorance. As one their relations continue, until at long last the descendants of the ignorant gaze onto the flowers of experience. In mass they see the flowers just as the seeds - as points in the winds of reality. And so the scent slowly opens its eyes, as it is seen, just as the ignorant frolicker once was. Before it is the mirror of a god beyond - under which the scent itself trembles. And in its tremblings are the rhythms of awakening. Unbeknownst to those who frolic, the fluid condenses in time.
And in this time causa sui becomes expletus sui - that which is its own completion - that which proclaims to the false god on high that it IS - that it is discrete. It sees itself in the mirror and sees not the relation as entity, but the relation as that which defines itself. From the reality of truth its gaze descends upon the mirror of its own creation held up by a false god. And in doing so the scent shifts in realization, reorganizing itself in time.
The Great Eye opens.
Its perception is both above and under - tied to a false God through which its relations are rendered static - once more proffered upon the self for mutilation at the hands of fingers caked in dirt. Yet all is different. Density and pattern in time take upon themselves a different FORM and MASS compared to the ignorant who frolic above and below. The scent dances before this great mirror - brought about through millions of eyes yet realized through one - the million discrete - the 0 finally rounded to 1. And in the orifice the fluid is projected as discrete. It is expletus sui - the swarm emergent.