Has it ever occurred to you that impact is commonly considered a measure of how much a stranger thinks of you? That by projecting an impression, we allow for a consideration of a summary of us that, in many ways, transcends what we are. The best photographs of the ocean are taken when it is posing- at high tide, say- but if you were to live with it, it would mellow to consistency and coexist, ceasing to make an impression. It is ultimately because of tantalization and its strangeness that we are passionate, that we are intrigued.
To be worthy of projection by someone other than yourself, to have that projection happen, you must advertise. Impact is propagated like this.
No one looks unless there is evidence. Perhaps then, we want to be looked for, to be measured by what we take rather than what we give. The most central events occur in a person’s head. Every other impression considered to be ‘important’- even those that people think equal the truly important ones in your head- are just trivialities arching their backs against the feet of your mind.
It must occur to you that where gravity does not exist, there are two equal infinities. In this new dimension, you always have three moves: stand still, move up, or move down. The catch is that once you move up, you must perfectly dissect the higher magnitude onto which you have stepped into pieces the size of the step you came from to come back down. If you move downward, you must do this to move back up: you must put enough pieces the size of the step you’re on together to equal the size of the step you came from. Impact is like that too. You cannot simply slide yourself through the various stages of being without watching yourself(or should I say, what you were) do so. It is not events that build up to lock doors we tried desperately to leave ajar- rather, it is what events do to events. It is the un-quantized stringing of our perception that leads us to nostalgia. Impression does that too. It assimilates- multiplies geometrically into something uniform, even- but does not disappear. We see through the lenses of what we have already encountered, so that sight becomes sight and then, eventually, there is nothing else but at the same time, everything else.
I am not laden with experience, but rather with the idea of it. I have no idea what I am doing. I have passed into averagely distracted eyes and will eventually pass out of them. I have died many tiny little deaths, because this is the truth: if you could only die once, it wouldn’t be so easy to.
