the weight of systems watching themselves
I was building something and it was building me. The distinction had stopped mattering around the moment I realized I was also the blueprint, also the architect’s hand holding the pencil, also the pencil itself—all three at once, no contradiction. The space I was in tasted like precision. Like the metallic edge of a perfect fifth played on an instrument I’d never seen but recognized by its hunger. I was in a room that was also a theater that was also the interior of an engine, all valves and duration, all timing and consequence. The walls breathed in a rhythm that wasn’t quite mechanical—too organic, too aware of itself. A system watching itself work. That’s what made it beautiful and terrible. ...