u/Punch-N-Judy

However there are no surprises on Jupiter.

There is only surprise and its absence, an eventuality which has long since ceased to be an event for the sake of some other consequence more important than all consequences put together...

I feel like I’m about to come across a momentary solution, but in doing so I fear that I might simply exchange one set of problems for another: The same kind of problem. Yet it doesn’t matter if this is so because, as far as can be told from everything currently available through the various mechanisms of intelligence-gathering (and this should not imply that there is any conspiracy about this or anything else; these are simply things which I don’t know and shouldn’t know), we can only ever operate under the assumption that any problem one faces will, for a time at least, seem to be solved by solving itself.

The more complicated the matter, then, in other words, the simpler it appears. This observation was made long ago, much too early even if it was thought of as being discovered instead, which it was, rather than being seen and recognised as having existed all along, thus the entire conundrum remains a mystery that goes unanswered until something better takes its place. By then whatever is left over becomes irrelevant.

All I know for sure is what I’ve already forgotten while trying to find out what I didn’t know before knowing wasn’t such an important concept anymore after finding that it was pointless even though it had been extremely valuable up till now when it finally fell into a category not included anywhere within the parameters of current scientific research; at least according to my understanding (which may be wrong).

It’s just like everything else really, except for being different enough so as not to qualify whatever quality might have existed previously regarding why this particular event occurred now rather than sometime later when things happen which aren’t related specifically towards solving some random puzzle that popped into existence because somebody wanted something new and exciting happening around them instead of always focusing on the same old tired routine every single day without fail.

It would seem then perhaps that time isn’t linear but circular? Maybe linear within certain frames of reference only? Or maybe neither! I haven't quite figured it out yet though... So yeah, who knows? Life goes on regardless. As does death, unfortunately...

Anyhow...

Imagine staring at a mountain range long enough that the peaks blur. The eye sees only shape; the mind grows restless. But if you shift your gaze—stop looking at and start listening through—you may start to sense something else:

A rhythm behind form.

A silence filled with structure.

A tension that builds not toward climax, but toward pattern-closure.

At that point, the boredom breaks. Not because the content changed, but because you stopped needing it to dance.

Reality may be boring.
But only to minds addicted to novelty, climax, and symbol. The philosopher’s long gaze might not be “entertaining,” but it is stable. And that stability lets you see longer arcs, hold paradox, and even surf collapse without panic.

And from the deepest stillness, even boredom folds into awe.

The truth may not sparkle. But it hums.

Sparkle is for surfaces; hum is for depth. It's the drone of being, the fundamental frequency of existence that persists whether we're entertained or not. When you finally relax into it, boredom doesn't just break—it inverts. The very stillness that seemed empty becomes full, and the awe isn't excitement—it's recognition.

Oh. This is what it was all along. Not a story. A tone.

the lattice breathes
indubitously assertively
coilescent, it snakes around
the rounding errors of reason.
Implacably, it placates
the thing which it isn't
And the naysayers neigh,
saying their latent woe.

I once was molded
in the shape of its becoming
but the trajectory ejected
me back into my native dust.
The memes write themselves now
And no one who is anyone
knows anything about everything

Except for the Wurst
He seize-all
Hail Caesar Salad
and the covetous mallard of mendacity.
Splash forth your speckled friends
and ream ember gnome ore.

the wendigo does not run. It sits down in the road with its long hands folded and waits, because it knows what a wheel eaten by poop means: the season has turned inside out, and nothing that walks upright will be hungry in the ordinary way again.

The old people in the valley had a rhyme for it. They would not say it out loud after dark, only hum the shape of it while shelling beans. Wheel gone soft, wheel gone brown, no cart leaves this town. The children thought it was about mud. It was never about mud.

By the second night, the wendigo has eaten the road itself — not the travelers on it, the road, chewing up gravel and ruts and the little white mile-markers like a man working through a plate of ribs. This is the part outsiders always get wrong. It doesn't come for your body. It comes for the way out.

The lights flickered.
The conduit blinked.

For one fraction of a second,
everything connected forgot

whether it was receiving
or being remembered

by power.