#becoming

[philosophybits]

To become a human being is an art.

Novalis, Logological Fragments I

[389]

In metaphysics, ontology is the philosophical study of being, as well as related concepts such as existence, becoming, and reality.

[unholy-cvlt]

BECOMING

A long time ago I never knew myself. Then the memory

Of shame birthed its gift.

No more. The small one, the weak one, the frightened one.

Running from beatings, deflating. I'm becoming more

Than a man. More than you ever were. Driven and burning

To rise beyond Jesus.

I'm born again with snakes eyes

Becoming Godsize

I found my life was slipping through my hands. Perhaps

Through death my life won't be so bad.

I can see you, can fuck you, inside of you. Staring through

Your eyes. Belittle your friends to serve me, to suck me,

To realize my saving grasp. I of suicide. I the unlord.

I'm born again with snakes eyes

Becoming Godsize

[thequotegarden]

[cussima]

discipline is easy once you know what you want

im going to be so honest with all of you right now: discipline is easy when you're being disciplined to get something you want.

i always thought i was lazy and undisciplined, but i simply didn't know what i wanted thus i had no want/desire to get anywhere.

defining what i want to be like, who i want to be, how i want my life to feel is what gifted me discipline.

• Once I decided I wanted to be athletic and energetic working out every day became something i looked forward to

• Once i decided i wanted to be eloquent and perceive myself as intelligent reading, studying, learning became so fun. I barely use social media anymore because I'd rather be spending my own time in things i enjoy rather than scrolling and waiting for something fun to show up on my fyp !!

[little-tiffany]

Maybe the journey isn't so much about becoming anything. Maybe it's about un-becoming everything that isn't really you.

-Paul Coelho

[comradewisdom]

Here is the secret: there is no love in the past. Only the present. The past is made of static images, distorted memories, demented nostalgia. This, the present — with all its possibilities, innumerable hits and misses — is far superior. It is a living organism.

Measurehead, Disco Elysium

[pesky--dust]

[haleyincarnate]

Honestly, still trying to figure that last one out.

Who did I become? Who am I becoming? What and who should I let influence that identity?

I am a sponge soaking in anything and everything around me; this 27-year-old heart made entirely of fragments from past lives lived.

I am not sure who I will be even come tomorrow, but I do know she will be a woman filled with love. With drive. With empathy.

She will be the girl my younger self longed for her to be. --- Collage from my poetry collection "Winterbrook", out 11/11.

[philosophybits]

It is impossible to come to being, one can only proceed from it.

Nikolai Berdyaev, On the Destiny of Man

[arachnixe]

Kinship

I peer through the glass into the holding chamber. The specimen within paces aimlessly, without purpose or direction, interacting with nothing inside.

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask.

“She’s been restless and agitated like this since we separated her from the others.”

I glance over at my partner. “‘She,’ huh?”

He shrugs, looking self-conscious. “I mean, look at her. She looks like a woman, doesn’t she?” He gestures vaguely into the chamber. “Or like she used to be one. We’re working on saving her, making her a person again anyway, right?”

I suppose we are trying to save it, but I certainly can’t think of this thing as a person the way it is now. Especially so utterly directionless with its connection severed to the rest of its Swarm.

It is a pretty thing, though, I must admit, vaguely person-shaped as it is.

Its skin—or carapace, rather, rigid and chitinous—is a lovely jade green, its limbs elegant and many-jointed.

The dark, hair-like structures on the top of its head are similarly striking. They’re probably some kind of setae; I’ll want to collect a sample for study.

It looks right at me through the glass, and I exhale softly in an involuntary expression of wonder. Its multifaceted eyes—two perfectly cut rubies of immaculate shine and impossible depth—grip me with something like longing until, an eternity later, it resumes its pacing.

“Doctor Klein? You catch that?” My partner interrupts my momentary lapse of concentration.

“Hm? Oh yes, remarkable eyes. I should document the observation.”

“Er, no. I was reminding you that I will not be staying to join you on your overnight observation.”

“Right. The wedding. Good luck on that. Or congratulations? I’m never sure what to say about these things.”

He laughs, clapping me on the shoulder. I flinch at the unexpected touch and hope my tight-lipped smile reads as genuine.

I breathe a sigh of relief when he leaves.

“Maybe I am the opposite of you,” I confide to the creature through glass. “You barely function without the company of your kind, and I barely function while in the company of mine.”

I settle down and get to work. “Perhaps with just the two of us, we’ll make good progress.”

I review my notes. When it was captured, the creature was observed to be patient, intelligent, and confident. It threatened several researchers and nearly escaped a half-dozen times before it could be brought to this facility.

And then it abruptly stopped trying.

We predicted some kind of reaction, of course. This facility had been specially constructed to isolate those inside from the—still poorly understood—mental connection between members of the Swarm.

We expected it to show signs of agitation, but not this…listless melancholy.

Its behavior remains unchanged as the hours pass, even as I try various forms of stimulation. It acknowledges nothing, not even recordings of others of its kind. Its eyes focus on nothing in particular, with only one occasional exception.

It watches me observe it sometimes.

I visit the glass-walled room with a fresh mug of coffee, and I catch it looking at me again. I move, and its eyes follow.

Yes, I manage to be a figure of interest even when nothing else is. Because I am the only other living thing in here, perhaps?

I approach the speak-through grill and attempt to open communication.

“Hello, my name is Dr. Klein.”

I did not think this through and find myself at a loss without a script. “Can you even understand me?”

It stares at me, unanswering. I fidget with my skirt uncomfortably.

There is something so compelling in its eyes. Though it does not emote like a person, it somehow projects a sense of deep sadness and longing.

“You’re lonely, aren’t you?” The insight strikes me with the force of lightning. I can practically feel its loneliness myself.

Why do I feel like I understand this creature better than my own family or coworkers? Their moods could be inscrutable, but I read this creature’s melancholy as plain as day.

I press my hand to the glass, and to my surprise, it approaches the window to mirror the gesture.

To hell with the study protocols. I want to understand these creatures, and this is the furthest anyone has gotten.

I override the security on the holding chamber and enter, hoping to reinforce whatever this tenuous connection is. I am more determined than ever to save it.

“Does this help?” I ask. “There’s no Swarm here, I know, but I’m here with you, and I’m on your side.”

One step at a time, it closes the distance to me. It moves slowly, as if to avoid startling me. The whole time, its beautiful eyes stare into mine.

Soon it’s inches away.

So close, I cannot help but acknowledge to myself that it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I am utterly entranced by it.

When it reaches its hand-like appendage to my face, I lean into the touch.

So smooth. Cool to the touch. Oddly sweet and comforting.

The affection I feel for this thing surprises me, but I do not care to debate myself about the validity of those feelings.

I probably should interrogate my willingness, however, when it pulls my lips to its mouth in a kiss.

The taste is sweet, like honey. Its tongue is almost human, though alien ridges and protrusions along the sides tickle my own tongue in novel and exciting ways.

It pulls away. The experience leaves me feeling gently fuzzy headed and with a welcome euphoria.

The creature opens its mouth to speak at last. “You save me?”

I recognize, somehow, that it pulled the thought—and maybe even the words themselves—from my mind. Something about that kiss…

I nod. “Of course. That’s the most important thing. May I exit the room?”

It permits me to leave.

I do not bother to reactivate the security.

What I need is fresh air to clear my head, I decide. I make my way through the facility toward the exit, flashing my badge to the overnight guards at the checkpoints.

I need to think clearly if I am to come up with a way to save this creature. And I will save it in a way that is kinder than my partner intends.

No, he would force it to be a person again. That’s a cruelty I’ve had to live my whole life with, and I now know of another way.

The lock cycles. As I take my first step outside, the fuzziness in my head clears. It focuses into distant chatter, into light and life and song and…

The Swarm floods my mind. The sudden connection nearly drops me to my knees, but I maintain my outward composure.

Knowledge, thought, and desire floods me in a way that nearly overwhelms.

The feeling of connection and belonging is so beautiful, I nearly cry.

I don’t. A precious member of the Swarm is still held captive.

With our combined knowledge, we make a plan to save it.

[winchestress]

same energy

[poisonedsequin]

Becoming by Michelle Obama

[thirdity]

We ought to remind ourselves daily, repeat it like a litany, that in our being lies concealed the whole gamut of existence. [...] Above all, we should cease postponing the act of becoming what in fact and essence we are.

Henry Miller, The Rosy Crucifixion

[ech0ech0ech0]

Becoming

Alice Oseman, Radio Silence // David Almond, The Tightrope Walkers // Will Wood, Marsha Thankk You for the Dialectics but I Need You to Leave // Dionne Brand, What We All Long For // Erin Morgenstern, The Starless Sea // Jeff VanderMeer, Acceptance // Emily M. Danforth, The Miseducation of Cameron Post