’cause I don’t have to stop. ’cause it doesn’t.
And now “I” am different, again. Change. Is how I would “put it.” What with the whip of atoms calling “I” ever-coupling to the Itself that the “I” calls “world,” really, when one gets down to it, in it (always), the distance is elusive (is “illusion”). And so “I” changes at the rate of the wind “I” is sharing; of the sea “I” is seeing; of the matter (volatile shivering).
It is Here. We are. Since we cannot claim a territory, we strain for modes to re-fer (de-fer?). Differ. We’re attuned to it. The rhythm of our tune is differance. There is no reason that suffices. We are in it. It.
In vocalizing, movement sounds (for humans). Or in gesture – perceptible matter (always suited to the version capable). It is always a matter of moving around, shuffling space with time. I cry, there is movement. The air and the chemical sea. I look – things displace, replace, are placed by my gaze – an interactive mechanism – part of a NEVER discontinuous train.
We touch, because sound, because cell, because particles and waves (as both) – because movement. Because “separate” is an aberrant traction (abs-traction). A practical folly.
I love you – re-cognition that borders are empty, margins erased. That “you” and “I” intersperse (wind, sea, light) molecules. Movement. Alive. I love a live.
Because live doesn’t noun an “f.” Life. Life is a period, an arbitrary stop. Imposed. But a “v” simply vibrates. We are a-live. We are the living. Even the “the” can’t contain it. It rushes the punctual, overcomes it. We are us and I love you (us).
Perhaps we need little realms to find out. To discover. Acting networks to re-member (to sew, to put back together) what’s dismembered convention. “The way it is” – what we’re impressed to “get by” (“survive”).
This, It, is NOT the survival of fittest, a live is the fittest and cannot be dismembered, “I’s” just being particled Lifes – and those not really – except in that most human of ways (itself a “not really” invented by us). It is more complex than that (call it “what’s live” or Enaction), and can’t be reduced to its “parts.”
Nor combined in a “whole” (another punctuated word). It’s not final, complete, but just changing (rates of wind, of sea of weather; of stones and planets, emotions and plants) – if we could dissect it (and we try) the variation of paces “seem” astounding…but It’s chock full of seams like two sides of paper – not different but same save the semes that are perceptible.
These semes are intended for motion: I love you. My so-called chapters and segments to “say” – we are us, there’s no other, and we’ve little idea of that.
“I” lean back, am exhausted, and rest (always moving). “I” don’t see the difference in sleep.