pre-writing exercise.

Like time and perception, dimensions're something that shift around all day (things that represent 'order' to us, which we govern ourselves with). Our sensory experiences are what happen at the points where these things meet with one another, but that's another story for another time.

Dimensions shift in zig-zags, yes. But also, they spasm in this kinda wriggle-y way. When I was a li'l baby: what dimensions I had I used to crush into powder. What I'd do with the powder: I would make nice milkshakes with them. Vanilla, strawberry, chocolate, swirling into obscurity. This would cause me to see things, and I would act against these things I'd see. Dimensionality is the same thing as plants, by the way. They mess with us in ways that defy our expectations so much that we don't even notice them messing with us. We just walk around thinking we get them and that they're simple. Therefore we never notice how they grow all over us, which is their way of making fun of how dumb we are for thinking we understand them. I accept being manipulated by the plants for coming from the ground that I both love and destroy with my people.

There was only one way I was able to get that powder. I'd rub my back against the camphor trees until my entire back was an open scratched up wound and the tree was too. (This was also me trying to find traction between myself and life). This was to make us just skeletons, whose bones would turn brittle. I'd take these brittle bones and further grind them with my li'l mortar and pestal into the powder.

That's why there're hardly any camphor trees left, why it's hard to find genuine camphor products anywhere- consequentially, since camphor gives us leadership over ego, why our egos mimic the things parasites do.

The aphids that would come out of the wounds of the trees I'd rub against surprised me. They were pure white, and they're disintegrate upon contact with the soil from which the trees grew- the birth of gravity, or something. Since this all took place in the Black Forest, back when it was truly black as in made of shadow and all its little songs (ghost stories, which I'm good at listening to), stuff like light which is what the aphids were made of weren't allowed- it was considered disrespectful of it to be there. Anything else didn't exist/wasn't there for me/wouldn't accept my blood offerings which was all I had to give. There weren't mothers, there weren't fathers- there were only the plants, desperation, and weakness.

Since this is medieval times, I'm supposed to be rescued by now. However, people're afraid of swans and how we hiss a lot.

I think about how my skin never grew back even though I act like it has. This causes me to start turning into something new that I've never heard of before. I'm turning into the things outside of the Black Forest that didn't exist to me before. This is not to say that I'm not a (black) swan anymore- I'll always be a black swan.

The kind of swan that eats their eggs- I'm a vehicle for the stories of my children, is why. So if you catch me hissing at you, it's still to protect my children, just in a different way than the other swans who didn't have to rely on their weapons to survive.

Story that parallels this:

I take my energy back from many of my former pacifiers without forgetting there are still a few that I indulge in. This is still medieval times, so a sword, rather than something like a pocket knife, appears before me. This sword's name is 'Forgiveness'. I use it to cut through the face of fear, the autocrat that looks at me with hate in a way that convinces me I deserve it. God, I'm so tired of this asshole at the same time I pity it. Forgiveness cuts through fear insofar that it cuts into my idea of what love is. It doesn't stop until I reach a place in which I accept that I might not ever truly understand love- I might do something like feel it, but then bury it underneath everything else as quickly as possible. It might not ever do anything other than freak me out.

This happens because I'm a person, and people are unable to handle ourselves in the recognition of infinite. So we act as small as we know we are as though we're not also big.

I am turning into a swan tonight to see if I can do something else with love. What story it can tell through me.