Tattoos

Tattoos: publically defined as: “the act or practice of marking the skin with indelible patterns, pictures, legends, etcetera, by making punctures in it and inserting pigments.” Boring.

Tattoos: Contextually defined as: the opportunity for transience.

The chance to capture and captivate.

Beauty,

as defined by the eyes of the beholder, holding onto moments cemented and consecrated by knowledge:

The means through which we discover and experience the wonder of truth,

simultaneously combining the information, like lining, is essential for the twining of both acceptance and proofs.

Word.

‘Inking it up’ to carbon-freeze our identity and memory, and layeh after layeh do we find ourselves asking the simple question:

Why?

I mean, how does the knowledge of these things spawn value within me?

Or without me, knowing, is there value at all?

These thoughts spin in my head like an ocean current:

Subtlety redoubling under the surface, yet core to who we are.

So, does knowledge create value?

Viscerally, I feel like it is within a given situation that value is fabricated into creation.

Yet I know that a situation’s worth is only so good as the accuracy of both its presentation in the real and memorial,

Banks, of it in my brain attempting to then present it like a present

it, is not so, then, is it?

Impulsively, I feel like it is within the objectivity that knowledge exists,

that its net worth is derived.

Yet I know that this worth cannot be netted,

for it seeps too quickly out of reality due to its objectivity, into my life.

The subjective: A realm where the inconsistent assists in the persistence of unobservability.

It is a place where malleability is Playdoh,

ironically blending all shades of grey into either white or cloudy,

For to have consistent shadows there would be as ridiculous as saying that change is subjective’s only constant. Or was it Life’s? I guess I’ve heard it both ways.

Tentatively, however, I must conclude that due to the incapacity to re-test the proficiency of the knowledge surrounding and eclipsing me,

That it is through the consistency, observability, malleability, tentativeness, and testability of objectivity that worth must be defined and surmised for the good of the populace.

And yet to be selfishly altruistic, I must counter that it is only in the intimacy of subjectivity that my life is finally derived and defined.

This calls into question the solidarity of my existence, quintessence suddenly copied from experience and pasted into the beliefs I call truth.

Knowledge, it seems, must be in the real in order for it to be, well, real. Right?

So, then hypothetically, the philosophical is no more than a magician’s ruse,

Wasting time, and intrudes the truth with illusions

that have zero correlations or allusions to what would then be knowledge,

Quarreling uselessly to prove points and theories never seen and thus are obscene to the scene of history in which we coexist.

Of course, if hypotheticals had no purpose, then the majority of homo-sapiens would be figments of the merry few’s nonexistent imaginations,

for does not most every birth start with an “I wonder”?

I wonder if this should be shared?

I wonder if he cared?

I wonder what I should say, dismaying over the hypothetical chances of acceptance,

All the while pondering the marvelous phenomena of the Mitosis rapidly occurring within the tissue you will soon answer to at every occurrence of precipitation on the windows to their souls.

Shared. For it takes two to tango, yeah, but it takes a world to see,

Beauty.

Both personal and shared, and the pursuit to win, keep, and remember it, (beauty),

is as driven as the necessity to know.

That’s the thing.

I need to remember the ‘information’ that changed my life,

and what better way than to keep a permanent personal reminder of the knowledge that keeps me alive.

And what is the value of that knowledge?

Well, what is the value of knowing the function of the sarcoplasmic reticulum?

None, unless the form following that function is concerning your need for a greater fitness level, in order to perpetuate your use of calcium ions to feed the millions,

Multiplying through the breaking of fish on the cellular level in the blink of an eye,

So that you can blink your eye.

(That’s the relevance of the sarcoplasmic reticulum, and don’t even get me started on where it’s from.)

You see, it’s all about the influence the knowledge has on both the world and the individual,

and an attempt to separate those will incite an immediate segregation,

isolating and excluding the crucial few who were saved by previously benign diseases

through the thorough research executed due to

Shared Knowledge. With the masses. Within oneself.

That is the value of knowledge: its capacity to influence, no matter how few or how many,

For unless you’re into polygamy, their answer only matters to you.

Then again, when you marry, you get the family, feuds and sentiments alike, so you better not have attrition spoil your decision. Am I right?

If it’s not directly in the influence, quantifiable or no, what then delivers the significance?

It’s like my tattoo.

Time.

Less than a moment did it take to commemorate the moment I fell in love with her,

Like Rolle’s theorem did this prove that I was rising to the occasion,

every action accumulating,

thoughts having an instantaneous rate derived at zero,

For there was nothing and no one that could change the ROC in me,

being the exponential growth of respect, honor and adoration that no capacity could ever carry.

I was imaginary. I was rooted.

No Dr could over DT rate these consecrations within me, for her.

You see?

Time.

Well, no. but it’s effects are obvious when the previously conceived timelessness is invaded by the changes of heart in the other, making you wish that transcendence had occurred in the lines they wrote confessing the now asymmetrical shape inside your heart.

Transience.

It shows the value of knowledge through its capacity to be incapacitated by change.

Time.

Less than a second did all knowledge of the physical realm come to be with a massive explosion of light.

Let there be no mistake whatsoever, to see that it also within the constraints of time,

that beauty is appreciated, not because it is eternal,

but rather it is only within the ephemeral that smelling limonene is finally crucial.

A crucible, burning away all that is unnecessary until only the knowledge that matters,

Weighs more than the timed experience, all the while less than its potential.

(Though, of course, the Possible contains mass as well.)

So! To recapitulate the state in which we have now found ourselves:

Like tattoos, it is within the subjective that the object of significance is found,

And yet the populace derives that the abstractified is the truest way to be satisfied.

And truer still is that experience must be in place in order for value to spawn,

And so hypothetically, if my skin was the axon of opportunity,

Frequent impulses of imagination would excite reality to the point of

Beauty,

Like tattoos, it is finally and permanently valued through the sweetness of a moment, and the solidarity of its monument in memory, and in the canvas that is me.

Thank you.