In The Presence of Memory

Nothing Like Leap Years

Maintaining the consciousness of being in the fifth-dimensional realm is playing tug of war with the third-dimensional one. As creative expressionists, our works are marked on the paper that preserves our specific re-occurrences, stimulus, and narratives that held down the exceptional array of words. These words, phrases, and visual holograms stored the original blueprints of what has unfolded. Looking back at it or say, looking into it as though we were flipping through our archives in a massively multiplayer online game, there is only the sense of knowing what had emerged or what went on as the sensations and previous energies start to connect with the emerging ones again, enlightening the series of works as flashbulb memories that make us carefully anticipate the other features it was presented with. Emotions, sensations, and the diction of it all as elements that struck through the perceptual human experience in this oasis. The writings of our archives are the cellular memory of this perceptual human experience...emulating and rejoicing in the morose wonder it seeks out occasionally to breathe in the coming of age films. There is no exact accuracy in knowing how the archives unfolded, but there is the pre-made ruckus of it all; home-made cookies on the luke-warm pan, ready to be dunked into delicious milk. Disregarding good or bad, amateur or professional, it is a work of no other. Not every one of them is the same in its perception, but the elements theorize themes in subtle hues of the mismanaged mind that did its best to interpret the consciousness. When the consciousness leaps forward without our knowing, our mind picks up the paintbrush to conjure up the crazy and the wicked of it all. It renders the not so vanished cellular memories that fuel our upbringing of us that is not part of the third-dimensional realm anymore. Its elaborate scheme was to take us to the fifth-dimensional...the realm of time where our cosmos are being adapted into the excavating grounds of our prehistoric ages. It makes sense. We are not part of the live stream...we are the live stream.   

No such thing as the previous cellular memories attacking anymore.   

They call it...cosmic bliss