paintings 8
Timelessness is wide and vast, all the way to the horizon. There is no need to go anywhere, because there is nowhere to go. Nothing will happen, because there is nothing to happen. Timelessness enters through the eyes and ears. The crowd on the street is watching. In timelessness billions die and are born again.
I stopped being a woman. I killed it in myself, I stopped being a mother. The scalp ripples. Femininity is gone like the waters. Where it was ridiculous and bizarre. I cut off the umbilical cord of generally accessible reality. It was my child.
I threw back my ears. I took out the knobs. With the timelessness of bone-in meat. I left the liver and pancreas. I'm out on the street. My tissues are empty. My breasts are empty. They are parallel universes maturing in cocoons. A sky of double blue - feelings I have tasted. When I contrasted the emotionality of herring salad with the desire for meat on the bone. On the street, phenomenally, thoughts imploded while breathing with precision.
All my life I identified with someone I wasn't. I didn't need to control my body, because I couldn't change anything anyway. It was the body that caused me compulsively. I was a mother, a wife, a woman when I spurned myself on Piotrkowska Street, the city's main street. It was there that I discovered my third eye. From the duality of nature - merged in the reality of Śunjaty - it's not mine, although I hear it. It's not mine, though I can see it. It's not mine, though I loved it.
Catatonic stimulation of the vaginal mucosa. I am a multi-person, million-person, billion-person. In the reality of Śunjaty, I have dissolved all Western psychology. Somewhere between the Void and the form. The meat on the bone is doing just fine without consciousness, crossing to the other side of the street. I am not in me, because everyone is in me. I don't eat, then everyone else eats for me. I don't love my children, it's everyone else who loves them. I don't breathe, it's everyone else who rapes my lungs.
In Śunjata, the conscious Self is inactive, while the subconscious is active all the time. Form does not exist in the conscious part of the mind, because that part is inactive, but all the time it exists in the subconscious. What then is Śunjata? It is the cessation of the realization of form, continuously present in the subconscious.
It's a little strange at first, watching a world where I'm not present. When the lack of time is a state of mind. Deactivating, vaginal Pin1 enzyme - where there is no sequence of events, they are all now. Or not at all. Supra-pelvic secretory gland sessions - among events without meaning, where the urban street hits the head: sidewalk not_to_ walk, house not_to_live, lungs not_to_breathe, bench not_to_sit, hot dog not_to_eat, eyes not_to_see.
From nowhere to nowhere. The body aches with music. Toxins of parasites. They are emotional roundworms of meat on the bone. Villi of thought. It hurts when bad and hurts when good. And to the heart with a rape of arrhythmia. The universe rubs its eyes. They are my eyes.
A sense of time is just an emotion. Between memory and imagination.
The streetcar outside the window hears the meat on the bone, although there is none in the room. Human voices outside the window hears meat on the bone in a room where there is none. Shunyata's reality - behind the wall someone is banging meat on the bone. He bangs the meat on the bone. He slices the meat. He fries the meat. Blood pours from the chops.
Cohsai-hermit is quenching his nature. Shrinking intestines and unleashed liver. He robs noumena with platonic love. I buried myself for you.
Time is merely a human illusion. Theories are already being rewritten by physicists.
There is nothing in the space occupied by bodies. In following without names, without properties. Time at 20:47 is still standing still.



Self-awareness is an emotion.
Consumers of Humanism.