Noonday Marks (This is an edewzealous{Philosophically inclined} entry for the time series in the book.)

“Where do we find ourselves? In a series of which we do not know the extremes, and believe that it has none. We wake and find ourselves on a stair; there are stairs below us, which we seem to have ascended; there are stairs above us, many a one, which go upward and out of sight. But the Genius which, according to the old belief, stands at the door by which we enter, and gives us the lethe to drink, that we may tell no tales, mixed the cup too strongly, and we cannot shake off the lethargy now at noonday. Sleep lingers all our lifetime about our eyes, as night hovers all day in the boughs of the fir-tree. All things swim and glitter. Our life is not so much threatened as our perception.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Like earthquakes, rigors deep and profound burough true and unfeigned into the reigns of time. And there are rigors against the surfaces of diluted trends within diluted spatial-temporal domains promising divergence, variation and derivations which bear no rigorous effects. They are debriefed in absentia and barely make their marks. Noonday marks are treacherous and deep. They soar percurrently above perception as they tend the undercurrent for the resurgence of life as contra-perception. All things have edges that must retain their stance or push them to peril. Time is not a passerby’s plaything.

If it is in such a diluted spatial-temporal domains that time has a calling, then it has a presupposition. That is, we must assume it has a calling on itself which presupposes time. Thus, time passes against itself as it may, drunk from a “Lethe” as Emerson puts it so we may “tell no tales”. it can no longer be presupposed that it is the causation for the forgetful state. It becomes the forgetful state. The reigns of time here is in process that forgetful resurging void edged in recurrent percussion harmonious in line with a sandstorm empty on its own mark. It is that thing drunk with space without any true rigorous effect.

Time tells no tale it cannot witness. And if we linger along the edges of perception we lose the tale it tells and become the percept within the sandstorm, drifting in a monotonous cycle of dunes trying to find ourselves within events never self-defining, always time-consuming. The force is not life-sustaining but draining; the systemic energy is malevolent in higher cycles. The struggle, the conflicts are fast paced and pitched against events as time finds itself the witness. Here is the beginning of the time series with keen and hopelessly incessant appeal, with time, the tell-tale witness, event, the tell-tall drifter, and the observer.

Do I freely brand my being with rigors deep and profound and brace myself for all possible pain-bearing but true repercussion and percussion of noonday marks? Do I re-drink the “Lethe” like some red rink constantly edged out and lost to existence and predesignate consciousness, find the out of sight stair and climb it, retrace my steps to find a different route or drift with the empty percussion glorious while harmonious and undefined?