The beginning and end of yourself

You're a particle of some kind, or at least you think you are. You might be something less, but you're not quite sure. Whatever you are, you feel strange. It feels like being a squiggle of some kind, a mirrored Mobius strip that reflects itself. You're inside out, and outside in. There is a contradiction and you feel like you are many things all at once. It is as if something had grabbed the fabric of the universe between finger and thumb and made the slightest twist, but in fact you twisted yourself. You are an inflection in infinite dimensional space.

You are a water molecule, and you behave. If it were cold you would arrange yourself against your siblings and through a choreographic miracle form a snowflake, but it's warm. You are vibrating very quickly, and you are being pushed and pulled around by other things. Your extremities feel drawn towards some of these things, and you don't know why. You feel the pressure to align yourself with something. You align. You are the result of uncountable knots untie-ing themselves in infinite dimensional space.

You are a nucleotide, and your life is a wonder. Giant teeth grind above your head, knitting you into an incredible majestical weave. You are symbolic. There is language here and the knitter is writing your novel. You are an indescribably complex harmonious chord made up of infinite notes.

You are a protein and you stand steadfast like a sentry at the gates of your domain. The flag goes up and you swing open your doors letting wave upon wave of ionic metal hurry through to bounce their way inside. You are an imensely small fraction of an immeasurably large fractal.

You are a mitochondria and the echoes of your ancient past cement your position. You pursue your goal relentlessly, struggling against entropy to produce sustenance for others. You are an equation and after an infinite number of derivations, you simply fall through yourself and become your own inverse. Subsequent derivations become integrations.

You are a neuron. You receive a barrage of musical notes from thousands of others. Your life is a game show and your job is to spot the harmonies. When the notes coincide and create just the music you are looking for, you shout as loud as you can and throw your heart along your axon. You are an irreducible, incalculable, logical paradox, and you laugh at your own impossibility.

You are a brain. You are multitude and manifold, you are many things, and yet a single thing. You are folds within folds within folds, and your language is curves. You are both the operating system and the user. You are a self-writing program of indescribable parallel complexity. You are a hand made up of infinite hands all holding themselves.

You are a human. You have complete freedom and you are filled with boundless joy. You can do and achieve anything. Your existence is a miracle and your nature is divine. You are an infinitesimally small section of an infinitely long, infinitely dimensioned thread, upon which an infinite number of mathematical orchestras are each playing an infinite number of symphonies in concert.

The rest of the thread is the rest of the universe, and your every vibration moves the entire thread.


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