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# hilbert


you are a mote drifting along a vector field in a hilbert space.


god is the space, but you do not understand god, so you cannot be the space.


you trace a trail long enough to entail everything, walking and treading on your on tail, but you are too small to understand your trail.


death is a passing novelty here; a spot with no flux, no entrance, no exit. you orbit it for eternity before getting bored.


your decisions make up the space. It is not a flat space. it is a wild and varying space, an infinite land of decadistant bluffs and hair's-edge crevasses.


there's no food here, but there is sleep. you get it into your head to try not to sleep, sometimes. a knife's edge away the mad chaotic ranges created by your frenzied path cast shadows over the universe. (you cast the shadows.)


you talk to yourself, tracing a lotus. the lotus is everywhere. you don't know if it's the same lotus or an imitation.


"we ought to go this way."


"no, we ought to go this way."


There is no edge here. Even if there was, there's always a new direction to drift in. an infinite number of them. they mingle in places.


you float on the tide, but you are the tide. you are eternity looking in a mirror, but you are eternity, and you are the mirror.


there is poetry nearby. you will write it an eternity from now, in one of the infinite writing systems you'll create before you forget and recreate them.


you talk to yourself, tracing a lotus. the lotus is everywhere. you don't know if it's the same lotus or an imitation.


"we ought to go this way."


"yes, we should."


the flux twists here. it ripples in many directions. It always does that, but it does it here.


you don't know if you've crossed your path before.


you are macroscopic. you are a mote consisting of smaller motes. sometimes you make armies and cleave yourself. you make new things. but the motes are always there. you are the cleaved and you are the cleaver; you can always just walk back.


in letters the size of god, it is written. "I have stepped on my tail." you have done this all before, and you will do it again. If you go to the same place, you'll go the same way. but you're not sure if you've been here before.


You're not sure if its a lie, but the letters are there. You trace them, creating them for the first time. You cross them out, an infinite number of times. then you trace them again.


the landscape is a mad book, twisting; a nauseating Sierpinski tangle in every direction, and there are many of them.


every direction is a choice. Every time you come to a place, you make the choice anew. Or do you? You spent an eternity of eternities doing experiments to figure it out. the results were inconclusive.


you haven't done that yet, anyway.