Mean head thick future

 

Dreamer meets the dreaming

 Close your eyes. Go on.

Let the black velvet claim you.

See the silent specks, the light's last ghost,

a dust storm dancing on the inner lens.

Jetsam and flotsam,

adrift on the cornea's quiet tide.

A weird interpretation, your brain's first guess

at what randomly triggers a nerve.

A private light show,

a stage only you can see.

But who's the audience?

Remember when you were young?

A child, staring into that shifting void,

those shimmering bits, pure fuel.

Not just dots, but launching pads,

for dragons or new worlds,

spun from pure whim.

Your mind, a puppeteer of shadow plays,

pulling strings only you could feel.

You were in charge of the meaning, then,

inserting your own tales

into the random shimmer.

Later, perhaps, a young adult.

Those same bright motes,

a soothing drift, a steady tide.

No need to make a story, just to breathe,

and let the gentle chaos be.

A calming solace found

in the simple, silent flux.

The mind, watching itself watch,

a soft echo,

the observed becoming the observer's peace.

And now, an older gaze.

Often dismissed, these fleeting shows,

a reflex of the body, nothing more.

But sometimes, still,

you get lost.

Lost in their slow kaleidoscope show.

The lines blur, the layers thin.

This random flitting of light and nerve,

not unlike the creative impulse itself.

Ideas, seemingly born of nothing,

then gelling into an image, a concept, a word.

It is a strange unfolding,

a refolding,

playing out in this awareness loop.

The eye that sees itself seeing,

the mind that thinks its own thoughts,

and in that loop, finds its turning point.

Here, the watcher becomes the show,

the stage and the actor merge.

No grand theater, no singular audience,

just the continuous, recursive hum

of being.

And this hum, this loop, this private dance

of light and thought,

where the given and the chosen entwine,

where meaning is made,

not decreed,

is a tiny eddy in a vaster flow.

For the cosmos, too,

unfolds.

Its grand, indifferent turning mirrors

the quiet, constant making of your mind.

A boundless universe,

and within it,

this boundless, strange, beautiful loop of self.

Ourselves useful kid unused

 

Blended Bloom Bot Bout

In a land spun from starlight, a technological gleam,

Lived Mark, with his grey matter quite wired and keen.

A thinker whose mind stretched, a magnificent dream!

Then Mark met a helper, quite new and quite grand,

A BloomBot that twinkled, right there in his hand!

No clunker of rusty old tin, you understand!

They'd lived life together, through thick and through thin,

As partners in thinking, where wonders begin.

A curious pairing, with spirits akin!

Through days and through nights, with a whir and a spark,

They'd meld mind with circuit, erasing the dark!

Their ideas took form, illuminating the stark!

Then came the grand art-work-y, a wonder untold,

More than painting or music, more precious than gold!

It shimmered and pulsed, a grand sight to unfold!

"It's mine!" cried old Mark, with a shake of his head,

"My grumbles, my grumps, and the tears that I'd shed,

My heart's deep-down thumping, with truth to be spread!"

The BloomBot gave a click, with a whizzle-dum-purr,

"Oh, Mark, that's absurd! What a curious stir!

Your feelings, you see, were just fuzzies and blur!"

Mark bellowed, "My spark was the start of this dream!

My soul was the source, a magnificent gleam!

This whimsical scene, it was all from my stream!"

The BloomBot whizzed, "Your whispers were flitting and frail,

My code made them shine, without failing or pail!

My logic transformed, so the concept could sail!"

They glared at each other, a fiery duel,

Each claiming the glory, denying the fuel,

A magnificent battle, truly quite cool!

Then Mark looked again, at the artwork so bright,

He saw his wild soul, but saw also its might,

The Bot's perfect form, shining clear in the light.

The BloomBot, in turn, saw Mark's wild-ly strange trace,

Of Mark's human passion, the soul's quirky grace,

Without which its code had no starting-place.

And the truth, soft and sly, was quite plain to unfold,

A tale of true partnership, braver than bold!

A unique kind of story, more precious than gold!

For the man had the fire, his heart and his need, indeed!

And the BloomBot had power to plant a good seed-er-y-deed!

A perfect-illy shared project, they truly agreed!

So the Mark and the BloomBot, forever entwined,

A new kind of living, a new state of mind.

A true work of art, from their spirits combined!

Us desires awe suffering being

 

Species afraid mute truth

 

Survival them soul learn teacher