They had no eyes. Really, when everything is defined, when all the ideas have been explored and the knowledge from them gained, applied and like every other extraordinary thing, when it congeals and becomes us, with us, it just comes down to the fact that they had no eyes.
The first time they told me, I remember how it was described. I remember the young man. He said, “They don’t see like us.” Well I have been called harsh. I sometimes think that If I did not consider accountability that, well, that’s not the point. It changed quickly to, “They see with their fingers.” Clearly there was a great deal of apprehension with calling them tentacles. All I could think of for years, even now, really, is Lovecraft, his horror in geometry, his struggle to reach outside his own grasp, past his own imagination. How it left me wondering about impossibilities. I would tell him now, or show him, truly, that horror is simple and life, life beyond our own, at least still for now, is simpler still.
Could you imagine a day when we would look at the sea and tell each other, well, we pretty much have that whole thing dialed in? We can plink away at efficiency and hope to catch a whiff of some flamboyant, collective trend but, for real, for the most part, for the practical application of its sum, well, we have it all figured out? Could you imagine us saying it? We haven’t, we don’t have it figured out, the ocean that is.
I think so much about how the intentions of a man, of a leader, well, how they are only measurable through effect. I can think about leading through creating importance, much as is done through our certain branches as it were, of our military importance’s. To think of the caution it inspired, the pragmatic death of a revolution of ideas. They told me that, much like a chameleon, that the seeds, they were comfortable calling them seeds, that the seeds could change, or more clearly and actually quite deliberately, could BE changed. That as when living in a world of “light” that exists only because of our eyes, that when you think upon the fundamental idea of color being discarded, well, why not all color, you get me? Why not light itself?
You could make a mistake and think to yourself that being here, being who I am, who this office is, that I could do many things. Would it be as easy as rising out of the chair, and I call it a chair because of so many seasons I have spoken to you about already. That I could rise from a chair and verify the findings, acutely, with a hand, say, upon the hull of seed. To turn and tell them then, after hours, days more likely, contrivances who for the idea of this office, live themselves as creatures struck from old tomes or sea vaults still in this hour, unexplored. Would we think then, for me to rise, for me to acclaim as truth with a hand less important for being mine, for being flesh, that I could say, ok, this idea, this thing you say, since I have seen it, since I have touched it, it is true? Would it be what would be said? What would be said? Is it that man who is holy or the anointment? Silence. Silence, discernment, few words. So few in fact as to seem that it is a matter below my attention. You say they move by rejecting light? And? Don’t you see. Don’t you see what the office means? What it is in fact that has happened?
I imagine it, deliberately, like an eye. It shuts and then, no light. It opens and then, nothing shed, nothing rejected. Can you see how that might slow a thing down, can you think like that?
And it was the seed itself too. Was it not long before they told me that no, there was not a science behind it, not a science that we sought, that we wanted to find. If I told you that our mass extincted us, if I told you that we could stop light by catching up with it, that we could do this, even at great cost, and truthfully, at a total cost to us, that yes we could move like this, but only in our own universe, not the universe, but our own, an empty one, one we made to catch up with light in, would you say, what’s the point? You would, and what’s the point. We do not want to catch up with light, none of us do. We do want to reach the stars. Have we?
The seed, I could tell you it was a shoe box and I would not be lying. I could tell you it was a shoe box shit from a plant, without more purpose than to fall to the ground and I would be closer to the truth. We were discovered by plants. That’s what it comes down to, I should not try to convince you. This is what it is. I wanted to be there. I will consider great moments. I will be there, in my mind, but I wished that I had been there, subordinate, menial, empirical, observing the one or two people who had been chosen or who chose themselves to go inside, to see what great thing was there to be seen, to explore the thing that had fallen, exploring us, seeking what, Birth? To see them realize nothing was there, that the machine, the craft, that it was just a seed.
I do not think you were listening when I told you that they had no eyes.
How many could you guess, not knowing? A great many secrets exist, I assure you. Secrets kept even from me. Many I have kept. I will tell you I would rather try to catch up to light in a universe I created for that single purpose that to trust the idea of myself to a secret remaining so, remaining a secret. That I know of, I can be sure of, that there was a clear evidence for? It was in the teens. I would say that no more than 100 arrived. It is a wonderful idea, who we are. It is truly wonderful. Who are we. How we can manufacture mind without a conscience. How we can use a piece without using a whole. How we can put great love into an idea wholly outside our own influence beyond the passionate adherence to its own, purposeless whim. Well, can you imagine who we are when I tell you that the seeds sat as they lay, well into weeks as their organic nature being at first obvious and second, obviously alien. Have you imagined a quarantine. Have you imagined the beautiful enigmatic white suits impervious to life but not malevolence? Have you imagined the fearless might of the military idea, erecting a coffer of steel, will it protect them? Can you imagine this, can you imagine the world, let me rephrase, can you imagine the mob? Believe me when I say we are all the same. Where is the strength of the idea? It is in you reading this, it is in me writing it. It is in the man shouting, I hear him shouting even now, “It’s digging!”
If a tree can send a seed to the ground and if that ground is not just the soil it springs from, if the ground is all soil, well. Where they get the ideas, where they say that we can imagine, or we can use our mind to determine the truth of a thing that a full day ago was not a participant in our reality, that they could say that, “On a barren world, the seed reacts much differently, growing fast to send new seed. Omniot, this seed will not become the thing that makes more seed, it will merely become the thing. Where should it send itself, its here.”
I had counted kelvins as a child, with umbrellas and coffee cans of water. I saw the seed, the suns secretions. I saw a space in the heavens, full of them both. I saw the light, not shunned, moving onward like the seed. How far.
How light would you think it was? I do not think you could measure it with your hand. If I told you the seed, that it may have been larger than a house, would you say to your friend, let’s pick it up and see how heavy this house is? But that is what it is. If you could place your hand beneath it and it shunned nothing, it would rise on the heat from your hand and to close upon it, would send it hurtling back into the stars. The idea arose faster than the understanding of it. Is it ever any other way. I wanted to be there too. That moment, I live it, where I say in my minds recreation, when those who have been chosen have decided or those who have chosen themselves, and I tell them by asking, “Where are we going to go?”
It is hard to tell a story that has already ended. I have never been that kind of an idea. I have been the idea of its realization, is any man less? Can I tell you that to be so light, as it were, that to be so light as to rise from the heat of an outstretched hand, that to shun that secretion of our sun, or a sun, and know that if a man who can become a different color, can become a color of his choice, he can do so in a manner of his choosing also. I would learn it but like so many things, this is not the idea of myself. Can you see then, me catching up to light, the seed some craft, can you give it windows like I did in my mind? I think that is enough, when you consider the truth of it, windows are all you really need.
Can you consider me catching up to light. Imagine it, my face in a window of the seed, light, another face outside, caught in that it cannot exceed me. A face too you can give it. A face it has. Can you see me escaping it
as fast as we both are escaping what still is and will probably remain, behind us, forever?
Did I make it clear that we killed the thing that it was, that the seed became? I think that I did but sometimes, I must ask. Sometimes, because of examples, the world is held dizzy with revenge. Did I make it clear that it is from a place where the thing itself cannot be, that from that place, seed will hurl forward like this same revenge? What is the thing.
Did I make it clear also that I could do anything, even catch up to light in a universe I created to do so in? Did I make it clear that despite the thing of travel, that idea, that we had wanted to arrive.
I am in a universe. If I tell you to describe it, how will you. You cannot assume that chiefly I would remain the same idea. I hope that was clear too. If I asked you what good were windows without eyes, would it be the end of the story you read here?