Feb. 1st, 2016

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We must wake in the right sort of maze, I think, to know we're a sort of maze, and a righter still to realize the sort of maze we are. Our palace is a kind of ice of air. It isn't colorless, but we take it as such till what's colored just like some part of it arrives to inhabit that part.

Intangible, but something can be built where it would be, when the colors that can find it are in play.

So we're ghosts. But instead of only getting to touch world and not just intervening ghost stuff for maybe when lucky one second a day, it's sight that loses itself. The notion of blind ghosts hasn't chiefly proved unpalatable among ghost-lovers for rendering even more difficult theodicy, but, I think, because when thought about a while it proves distressingly familiar.

The classical ghost sees but strains to touch the world she pines for; ours may touch but cannot see the world within. The world within the world within, rather: not our thoughts but what would anchor them, not our desires but what would conduct them sans dispersal. The planet inside the mind that our thoughtlessly vaporous washes of thought scurry, sans cease, about and across, more rapidly and warmthlessly than anything called speed or cold outside. The wherewithal where each found richness links.

A labyrinth not for hiding an answer, for being at just one point of at a time, but for all unanswered questions to at once lead us far into all that they are over floors under ceilings by walls made of questions now answered. Adorned with most intricate answer, like limbs - falling forth in an ever-awakening known - knowing carried by, carrying question.

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