Aristotle said objects at rest tend to be at rest. Objects tend to die.
Newton said objects in motion tend to stay in motion. Objects tend to live.
They are both uttering the same phrase. Which we are conscious of at any one moment shifts from one to the other, as if they grew bigger and smaller by our awareness.
There is the web of all things. They are interconnected. One only knows something in relation to something else. Nothing is atomic. I fall into all points at once (I am amazed that my body seems to stay intact at all, that I have any sense of inner gravity keeping me together, when all I feel is my self separating and falling in all directions, into all locations, falling, falling...). The idea of solid objects seems strange. In my head, it seems like they should be in constant flux, moving in and out of each other (although the idea of penetrating and receiving is somewhat meaningless if there is no solid body to move in and out of. Sex is an illusion, we can never really touch each other). But maybe this is the case, it just happens so much slower (to my own eye). I think of my dead skin falling off, pieces of myself being absorbed back into the environment and me taking things from outside myself in, changing them within my body. I feel like a bee (because all blossoming is relative), germinating and cultivating the "waste", which is not really waste, but is only as it is no longer useful to me.
Usefulness. Teleology. Direction. These things imply an end.
There isn't one
In that an end is a totality, except in that the totality is the regenerating and constancy of activity. An end at each temporal atom (which falls and caves in on itself due to its nonexistence). Moving through them, declaring existence, always confirming itself through performative action.
Words. Are. Shifting.
I can feel them in this way, like teutonic plates, it is something underneath them. Andy tells me the story about a man pointing to the moon, and no one being able to see it because they're looking at his finger and not following it, and I think of fingers like words, as the sounds, and the meaning being in that distance, underneath them, and in the listener. But the moon keeps moving, you see, and it keeps changing phases, but I feel like I can't move my fingers to show those things to you.
To keep my arm from turning to stone, I have to keep moving it. Solidity is stagnation. It is the unborn death.