The modern decorations of the truth
As, i write this, i sit on hard plastic, while my words lay in an algorithmic box, lying on a wooden plank, supported by iron stands, while of course, I think, surrounded by four walls of hard concrete, with a three blade fan above me, cooling concrete and myself down, but then, this is not the modern age is all about. Not the money that that supports all of this, not the power of each one them to hold themselves or each other together, or the faith of mine in these artifacts of human accomplishments, or a much complicated faith in life itself. Yet, I want my words to not be bricks, concrete, and plastic, algorithm, wood, iron or plastic. While all these carry a dead-weight of thought to them, the thought escapes the artifacts and establishment, like the thought escaped the nuclear bomb. The very thought, that escaped its own invention of men and machines. But elastic it is; the thought, like its inventions. It would be unwise of course to think of the elasticity...