Swirls

I feel helpless and worthless isolated and overwhe­lmed by something ... in despair and afraid ... in a dark space devoid of hope...

If you look around you when you are in a swirl you will create distinctions in what is otherwise undifferentiated space; and this breaks up the swirl, thereby lessening its power.

Swirls are dynamic. They have power, and invariably that power takes the form of negative energy. So, when a swirl finds its prey, the individual feels acted upon. Unfree and helpless.

Under private property ... Each tries to establish over the other an alien power, so as thereby to find satisfa­ction of his own selfish need. The increase in the quantity of objects is therefore accompa­nied by an extension of the realm of the alien powers to which man is subjected, and every new product represents a new potenti­ality of mutual swindling and mutual plunder­ing. Marx, Human Require­ments and Division of Labour (1844)

No trace anywhere of life, you say, pah, no difficulty there, imagination not dead yet, yes, dead, good, imagination dead imagine. Islands, waters, azure, verdure, one glimpse and vanished, endlessly, omit. Till all white in the whiteness the rotunda. No way in, go in, measure. Diameter three feet, three feet from ground to summit of the vault. Two diameters at right angles AB CD divide the white ground into two semicircles ACB BDA. Lying on the ground two white bodies, each in its semicircle. White too the vault and the round wall eighteen inches high from which it springs. Go back out, a plain rotunda, all white in the whiteness, go back in, rap, solid throughout, a ring as in the imagination the ring of bone. The light that makes all so white no visible source, all shines with the same white shine, ground, wall, vault, bodies, no shadow. Strong heat, surfaces hot but not burning to the touch, bodies sweating. Go back out, move back, the little fabric vanishes, ascend, it vanishes...

Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow

It was not death, for I stood up, And all the dead lie down; It was not night, for all the bells Put out their tongues, for noon. It was not frost, for on my flesh I felt siroccos crawl, Nor fire, for just my marble feet Could keep a chancel cool. And yet it tasted like them all; The figures I have seen Set orderly, for burial, Reminded me of mine, As if my life were shaven And fitted to a frame, And could not breathe without a key; And I was like midnight, some, When everything that ticked has stopped, And space stares, all around, Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns, Repeal the beating ground. But most like chaos, stopless, cool, Without a chance or spar, Or even a report of land To justify despair. Emily Dickinson