pattern of primes

an endless history of somethings within arms holding baskets brimming with wind. a something that appears forceful, filled with a power, often invisible, recognizable with its predictable and improbable containment. i want to be buried in snow. the purpose of this writing has shifted. i would like to be frank, to anyone that still reads. it is no longer an experiment. i've already concluded its result. the buzzing world of connection is, under some circumstances, disjoint. my funding has run dry and not only am i comfortable with the notion that hundreds of stomach aches can go by unnoticed, but that i wish them to go by unnoticed. that i require them to be. that this writing is for myself and my comfort, because comfort with the invisible force, so theoretically uncontainable, can be made into a discrete mass whose shape i internalize. the civil battle has been waging slowly and over months, built with a strength i could have never predicted -- and i have moved places, stood in poses and undergone maneuvers so complex that i find it difficult to see exactly where it was i once stood on this massive board of chess. the factoring of a large numbers, the pattern of primes. i have become the shape of my own one way function, and in the struggle of myself, i see that i am both winning and extinguished. i do not know how to deconstruct a bucket of wind, but i am better able to carry it in arms, confident and young, across time. in a representation of psychoanalytic world lines i see a deep portion that has caved in under equal parts pressure and the inexplicable. human interactions carry such collinearity that there is no hope to detangle the abstracted knot. the only hope is a perturbation theory, some approximation to a known problem. and, statistically, this is not only the best anyone can hope for, but in its refusal to fit into the confines of symbols, reality itself becomes no more complicated than the approximation to it. so the simplification is the thing on which i have been meditating. no longer an experiment, statistics and differential equations without solution, more and more so, are becoming my philosophy.

i find myself in cars, on busses, in transit, repeating the word 'love' for no reason at all. just the word, without any meaning and without any connection to a being or a place. love as an isolated sequence of letters exploding spontaneously like bubbles rising from the depths of a can of coke. i have never been more certain of nothing at all. i have never been more comfortable with its certainty.