S R Gurney

Beneath The Mushroom Cap S R Gurney

Growth, as spores of genuineness unto a fungus to the dark and dampness of true living. In the beatitudes beyond us, and through improbable births of magnanimity and speculation. Where conditional incrementalism is the birth of life's absolutism, so to tendril us from the convections of the earth's ice and fire and so totality. Meandering through minerals of rock and the bio-chemical permeations of life biology. Coalescing indiscreetly as blundering cognitions, which aims to question and balance the eternal unctuousness of perception and reality. It is the darkness that binds us organismic. To the freeze at which bounds the eternal progressivity of life itself, so to retain the heat which transcends our visions of meaningfulness. It is here that we are the compounds of banana and water alike, where we are neither too. We are ones of the shroud. Where the ants of our forerunners ancestry are no more than the combination of compatible elements forged by force and heat, were at the evolution of perceptive sense, we awoke awareness. These are the virtues of humankind, where we have a skewed purpose for the benefit of avoiding the senseless nothingness, to which we grew. Where we are to return as admissions of doomed existence, which awaits all. For why else would common belief require philosophers and poets? To warn us of our infinite virtue and life, wrong answer. We are but a shimmering pearl to the suns forceful and natural negotiations of space and time, to which monumentalize us as infants in the durations of existence. To the almighty inevitability of fates cruel darkness, where we know not what awaits. Be it another moment to shine as the closest star we cling, then it will be for the greatest of fortunes to inherit, especially for those future ones. Of whom none shall remember the lives that pertained previously, like the amnesiacs we were at our evolutionary culmination of sense development, and activity definition. Here is where the start and the end of the circle convene, to form the impossible shape of perfectness, which exists neither in reality nor in imagination. For there are no dream parameters we may measure to be of exactness. So much so, that when we see that big orange circle-like star in the sky, we are convinced through the frame of pastel blue-hue (which too is an illusion of perception), that this ever-lasting bauble is our co-operator. Which too is false. This is life below the mushroom cap. Where we propose that our senses are as indicative of falsity as they are of belief. Where un-enlightenment is a burden at which intelligence strides to eradicate, so to pragmatically assert of what is real and what is true-myth. In the nothingness and some thingness of dark insecurity, where we are but dreamers and dwellers the same. Where we are but the stemming growths of molecular instabilities. Giving us chaos, and indeterminate complexion, beneath the mushroom cap.