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Spinning, swirling colors, neon bright, transcendent in splendor, colors that don’t exist in the visible spectrum, only I can see them, for my nature transcends the human experience, though I was once human like all the rest.
Now, I sit atop a cloud of cosmic energy, glowing brighter than a helium star, and from atop my cosmic perch I behold the rise and fall of worlds, colliding, anhilating1, something else I can’t think of2.
Something. A wonderful placeholder, so perfect. Perfection is imperfection. Freewriting. So freeing. I don’t have to know what I want to say, because I can simply let my mind generate ideas by itself.
The mind. Cosmic. Transcendent. It defies a totally materialistic origin, is rooted in a materialistic universe yet is something more. LIke some impossibly ancient tree, its trunk rises high above the material universe, sprouts sprawling branches far above, somewhere in another realm, a higher plane of existence, an abstract world of concepts and ideas, of existence in its purest essence, the elixir of life, the seed of life, with no cumbersome matter to bog it down.
Footnotes
1. This should have been spelled annihilating. English, you so silly.
2. When I can’t think of anything to say and I’m freewriting, I write about that. Eventually, as you’ll see a little further down, I move on to something new. When you’re freewriting, it’s very important to keep the pen moving, even if you have no idea what to write about.
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