Sudeep Adhikari
Deconstructing the Science of Soul I come to a standstill, when I speak. Word is not the world a matrix of veil, virus, venom; represents but misses the entropy of this immediate now there is no calculus of the "Present", no algorithms of Truths. Reality happens in the whole with its turbulent terror, vortices and silty-shiny paintings of sand-dunes, carving hundreds of silver-coins from a single moon. Only a limited fraction of the whole, I am talking about when I make philosophies and religions out of it It's like playing dart-game in a bar you are drunk, and you always miss the point. You abstract, and extract a meager figment from the swirling plasm of becoming that flares like the solar-wind the map is not the territory, low-key definitions of Instagramed Van Goghs. Ideas and words, precipitate to a static low like the calcinated bones of pre-historic raptors, as dead as Seattle's Grunge and Zarathustra's God. My ego, a quarter of the half, of the shadow of the shadow of my shadow lingers in words, decapitated and robbed when the plastic soul
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