AMKent books

Time is here to train obedience, it doesn’t exist. We are measuring nothing, precisely so. Past and future are cognitive compression techniques, it is just our brain dealing with the chaos of non-linearity being the true modus operandi.What happens when your brain stops believing in its own narrative? Insomnia, exhaustion. Your body becomes more important than the supposed God of your autonomy. Your sleep is you temporarily resigning from the illusionary timekeeping, the numerals and accounting cease to be your master, and you the slave. Your body isn’t experiencing 12am, your body is reactive to the in-built hierarchy. Your mind says it is time for this, or that, precision that is not within our biology. We are disciplined by a measurement of something that we do not even experience properly, according to physics. You can’t sleep? You tell yourself that you have failed, a failure at not accounting for your existence to the artificial precision of time measuring. Ironic, then, that your rest arrives the moment you stop measuring it, when you no longer account for yourself, when you no longer know the exact numbers of time. Even in our sleep, philosophers hound us for symbology and meaning, treating our last biological bastion as a logic puzzle. When you dream, you experience existence as intended, the narratives do not need to make sense, follow a linear narrative, obey morality or the laws of physics. Your body knows more than your mind, you sleep when your body is able to wrestle down that brainwashed lion and remove the thorn from its paw. When you do so, you can be incoherence, and there are no repercussions to dreams, no consequences, you existed away from the artificial, a cyborg no more.

‘At first, nothing, not abyss or blackness, just truly nothing. Then, a minute flame turned to cinder, turned to ash, turned to flame again. This time the flame is bigger, it mutates my presence and I respond in kind. Playful commutation, you and I. Kaleidoscope of metamorphosis trickling down the strain. Dust shaken from the shelves of infinities. It echoes. I hear it. It hears me. We distort one another evermore. We are porcupines that cannot embrace, my recursion is your cancer, and your cancer is my plague. Just when one of us is about to succumb, I am pulled through the eye of the needle, backwards as forward. We are injuring one another in different ways, I bleed your spirit, you puncture my soul. Neither of us were the first, yet we both share the origin, unison formation. Between us, selves flickered into being, not breathed into clay, but scraped into existence, friction. Chronology soothes the minds of those that need it, paradox lives eternal and without obedience. I am your witness, you are my observer, let us recast.’