It’s kind of fucked up when you think about it.

Who I am, I mean. The ineffectual human. Undeniably broken, defective from the start. That much even my mother believed, having been told so by an angel who offered her a choice between a child who needed “extra work” or one who would come pre-made perfect — before I was born.

But I digress, I really and truly don’t mind distance from other people. I’m the person who just enjoys the unaffected presence of others. Interaction only when warranted or desired. Unwanted interaction fires off a series of impulses that must be suppressed because you learned young that this concept is incompatible with most people. You can’t only interact when you want to, it’s unfair to others, it’s anti-social. Thusly, you learn it is up to you to suffer most of the time.

It’s not that you hate interaction, in any way shape or form really. In fact, there is no one simple reason or explanation behind it. It’s a complex pattern of anxiety and sense of self. Being so lost in a complex dialogue of thought that the outside world is an interruption. Hyper focus, when the entirety of someones focus and attention is so completely on one activity that it may be difficult to get their attention to begin with. Often, this quiets the conscious mind, allowing the maelstrom of thoughts underneath the turbulent surface to process and flow. To me, my very body is noise in my existence, any change in state is distracting.

People are complex organisms, and social interaction more so. Interaction is a side effect, and social structure is a side effect of that. Processing non stop feedback is like trying to run in a hamster wheel that indefinitely increases in speed. Eventually, you are so far behind that you get caught in the spinning wheel. The events around you are a blur of motion and noise, the only conceivable sense the sense of time. Later, when it slows once more, only the blur remains in your memory — having been unable to take in any appreciable information.

Add more people, more noise, more detail — the effect is only more discombobulating.

This is not to say that I hate interaction. Like most, I crave the closeness of others, I cherish the moments with my wife even when it is not perceived as such. Slow, meandering stories lose me quickly — leaving too much room for thoughts about other things. Such as what might have caused the particular scratch pattern on the windowsill facing the Beverly Center which sticks out at an awkward angle as if a growth off of Cedars Sinai. Two cranes above it, the view from the operators chair, the complex relationship between the different controls and how we came to settle on that control design and the rabbit hole goes on as long as no outward force seeks to disrupt it.

Turn this on.

Leave it on 24/7.

Let that machine run itself into the ground. Let it catalog and take in every moment, movement, sound, color, texture, and structure around it. Every pitch of every word, and every inflection on every sound — even if not the word itself. You get more information out of written text anyways, when you aren’t busy processing facial structure or body gestures.

That crane is largely composed of steel. Molecularly it is always in motion. Atomically it is held together by atoms that never touch one another. The space it occupies is infinitesimally small in relation to almost anything of significance.

No, you don’t count. You are not significant.

What is, really, in an infinite world. A world filled with people incapable of abstraction, understanding the position of those they are at odds with, unable to see different avenues or approaches. The same people who aren’t plagued by a mind willing to attempt to calculate *every possible potential of every possible action of every actor in every system.*


Non-stop for all time.

And the fear of not doing so, for fear of being caught off guard — of not being prepared.

Everything is cognitive noise. The passage of time itself is worthy of introspection — yet often ignored. For where does it exist except for within our perception of it — our ability to bring attention to it.

The only proof and validation that anything ever happens — or happened — is a buffered and filtered signal from optical nerves to a hallucination generation center.

An intrinsic trust that what you experience is real, because you have no option but to.

Focus on the time between the ticks, rather than the ticking of the clock itself.

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