A Turtle Telling Time

Sea turtles were once regarded as the time-keepers of the ages by the sages and mages. That is, perhaps, why they live so long. These patient reptiles stay to record the times of its beats and measures on the scutes of their shell spines. Turtles in general are catalogued as 'slow' travelers. I beg to differ. Soil or sea, they migrate according to magnetic force of resistance and flow. By phenomenon of weight and matter, they balance time to the numerical state of zero. 'Slow' (or 'fast') is reserved for both the objective and subjective.

As the author, I am designating a magical story-time-telling tale here, to submerge the imaginateer back into the depths of their magnetic black hole, their core source of gravity that links and rotates itself with the motion of hook-and-release. It is a personalized guiding system set in the mechanics of the body to navigate the form just one-way around its emotional relations. Similar to the sensation statement, 'feeling-in-the-bones', it is now the time to unfold the page, simulated by sea turtles. 

Read on my little diver, slow and steady is now the White Rabbit. Follow at your own pace. I will leave a lace of light to trace your way new. Once upon arriving at the corner of the page, release the fold like a blooming petal that temper the crease that mirrored the old. And so, 'it' becomes, because 'it' got curious of the little black sphere in the border. Deeper in my Medium are stories broader in spectrum. But hare, return to me because the sea turtles wants Yew to see.

Speed is their measure for time-distance. The slower the sea turtles are, the finer details are received in their turtle cognition to clarify the right direction. Speeding "up" its hand, whether second, minute or -our hand, it is resisting the currents that already nudges the wanderer to explore more of its swimming grid. Because time and distance is static phenomenon, they are combined to create a beginning point for the sake of simplicity. 

As the author, I will choose e to signify what is simple on paper. Gleaned from a talented mathematician, Euler's Number e, a mathematical constant, represents the equivalent virtue of simplicity in its most organic formula. The very essence of this equator, branded as e, organizes the fulcrum thought. The ecstatic-static thought and execution of motional perception, narrows its frame of view, though, further out in time they preview. Holding still within the sphere of iridescence, bubble bends to warp into its grounded cube shape, sharpening degrees of the circumference, bi creasing folds. Triangulated corners point at the focal filaments of high voltage vines. Lining a golden string from its vertices, straight through the blueprinted layered paper stack, e is streamlining an invincible thread, yet delicate tendril of energy through the density of matter. The e number symbolizes for me, a numerical value of simple sincerity. 

Distance delivers a much shadier distinction. 'Deeper' or going 'away' from the present e, the more they are able to perceive the end of time, clearly. In the respected human language: stillness reveals all time, and distance reveals no space. The space that is above or below the x-axis and to the curved sides of the y-axis is square rooted by the Human algorithm [of thought] labeled possession and cubic squared area, rooted as the Tesseract in the Earths algorithm [of humanity], labeled Values. 

Values is the beat of its rhythmic habits. The bone-shelled sea turtles travel distances to record and untie hemispheric relationships, provided by their basic patterning of simply having their belly facing the Earth's core. Side note: since, turtle talk is illegible, I will articulate my transmission through the Human timeline.

Answered Riddle: a homo sapien erected vertically in a bar, 33 to be exact, it directed to face "north". Why? So [man] can be blank and ALL could name the equator. 

Values is possession, objectively or subjectively viewed. The sea turtle swims horizontally to align with the horizontal layers of the earth grid. Whereas, the [man] 'walks' on a layer, the alpha oscillation layer (to name one), with the purpose to reach its vertices, as high as it could breach, no matter the direction, just for simple fun and misconception. Sea turtles hold the horizontal grid of memos, the keeper of time records ancient memories on their platforms of scutes. [Man] spawned into the Earths' grid when it looked to see where it was standing -- a scute of security, a realty of memories. 'Under-stand' is a verb that describes this scene without the -ing. It is the act of simply having the feet planted on the shell, while looking into the refracted sky, and allowing the Earth shimmies to signature the human's Fifth House flame to fly. A true virtue of a [man].

The beat is valued by sea turtles because it is the pump that is pulsating vibrations all throughout the earth's gridlines, off tune or in sync, its resolution is to resonate staffs at its most melodic harmony. Synthesizing the body roll that twirl with the tunes. Grooving fontanelles, edges the cubic squared fish bowl. A blueprinted squared area to graph the invisible depth. A slight redraft to depth. Depth is direction; from the prime point of measure, continuing toward the margins of the magnetic sphere or the marginal scutes of the sea turtle shell, distance and speed is assimilated and the turtle's global positioning system is formulated and calibrated with the all encompassing flow. There's no need for drafting lines on their [no-mind]. Their internal vibrational senses signals of the "path" to be present in, marking all need-to-know-now in a lineated time-distance "space". 

"Cadence to static," the sea turtle advices, "the 'interlocking' that occurs at the 'crossing', propels awareness at lightning speed, revealing its frame of reference in all dimensions."

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Take your time White Rabbit, the whole is this black. Its bold, basal pitch is only to ignite your own spark. Rest now my coney, you have been thawing a journey. Drifting around from my gelid pond, I witnessed your spellbinding chemical bond. Head high little hare, the mind has nothing left to bear. Hop along my scripting, as I revive in my dimensional dwelling. This turtle has turquois enough writing. My color blue to your print, a long drawn-out blind race of sprint. 

This is Mr. Turtle Telling Time. Tune in for another wavelength segment of space traversing magic and syncing calibrations wizardry, with the curious [mind]: consciousness of the Play Bunny.

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Snooze about the verses of time at www.aimeeortega.com