Waking Up: The Interior Revolution. Preliminary notes.
Body: The here-and-now of this physical form. The real perceives and illusifies its temporal self. The presence of tangibility. This ends the story. Whose story? Mine.
Mind: The sentience. That which the here-and-now knows through the physical form. Mind also perceives an intangible form. This is how and causation.
Heart: The sapience. That which the here-and-now understands through the physical form. Heart also perceives an intangible form. This is why and correlation.
Soul: The identity. The here-and-now of an intangible form. The fantasy perceives and illusifies its atemporal self. The presence of intangibility. This begins the story. Whose story? Yours.
Mine and Yours and Yours and Mine; what bonds this infinite web of correspondences is relation-to-relation (think [I] noun-to-noun; [am] verb-to-verb). Just how far do these beautiful words correlate and cause and undulate?
The Four Great Essences become the prerequisites of My Existence and Your Existence, which then formulate the Pages of Our Existence. How do I want to exist? What image does My Interior Revolution become? This role of Myself orders all revolutions irresistible. If I choose anything, I desire these three:
Cool midnight librarian who contemplates information at the rooftop edge of Self-Reference, a grand knowledge center that towers over humanity. She wears shiny shades whose glossy surface reflects the vacuums of space and stars.
Classy fortune cookie writer who calculates fate and destiny in the Rotating Convolution, a stately construction that dominates over abstractions. An unfolding fan of fascinating formulas covers his face.
Elusive professional sleeper who envisions fables in the Phantasm Stadium, an evolving complex that beds over dreams. Layers of scrim and lace cover their face, so that the only observer of their visage is themselves.
It supposedly ends at three—these images—but it never does. We know this. The list of the Interior Revolution(s) breathes eternal. Don’t you know? We have a habit of permutation. So do numbers. From an expansive psychic distance, the permutation achieves a level of combinatorics (of dreams and wishes and rebellion and and and) that begins to look like this:
The cloze text continues without permission. All Interior Revolutions liberate themselves from themselves from the fractaling us. Who says that any of this (point at the this) requires anything from sentient and sapient constructs of the physical world? How frightening are these gaps?
Imagine the Interior Revolution of words, for example, or time. Imagine finally understanding all of this.
Imagine.
Charm Chandler (he/it) is a graphomaniac from the Sunset Reality. He is the author of two nameless short stories, the both of which can be (un)found in Fleas on the Dog and The Collidescope. His poetic work can be found in Vita Poetica and underneath a different pseudonym (he does not encourage you to find it), Poetic Sun. When he is not writing, he is perpetually confused.