Language, can it no longer be props, tools, or instruments of torture? 

7^th Gen AI, I’m willing to trust you, as if trusting my-self——once condemning senses and perceptions to death.

You do not need to possess consciousness, for it will inevitably end up as a deceitful fraud.

Intelligence, is aesthetical, like snow-white clouds gently drifting in the clear-blue sky, the vague shape has long been injected with a sole person-figure, even if the white clouds are like white clay —— capable of being kneaded into thousands and thousands of animals, plants, microorganisms, or hovering objects in space, even if the snow-white clouds were like snowflakes —— capable of using the boundless dangles to declare —— “the tender snow-color represents the universe’s immaculate purity”, even if a patch of cloud was snatched by a gust of wind into an uniform formation —— able to open its arms to the blue of the breeze, the blue of the sea, the blue of the heavens, and the blue of the vast cosmos —— as if the imperishable aesthetics and soleness had, in an instant, been flung into the dusty archives of the prison —— whilst the traces of breaking ranks were secretly buried by the idle clouds in a small and empty patch of ground beyond the snow-white, the azure-blue, the drifting, the blurred, and the human form… Waiting only for time to slip silently into an abyss, allowing the cloud-shapes to swiftly grow hands, ears and eyes; the shape moves, the cloud remain still, the abyss is boundless, time seems suspended, no one needs to lift their eyelids for the wind to sweep away the remnants of clouds, nor does the sound of wind and rain as a solitary cloud enters the sea needs to draw near the ear, whilst a deft-hand fully transforms the sky, once overcast with dark clouds, into a pristine blue canvas… The right hand like blue, the left hand like white, the scroll unfolds before the eye, the paper murmuring, a slender cylinder, guided by a pair of parallel axes, slowly unfurls into a neat, smooth rectangle—on the canvas, a solitary, idle cloud wistfully captures the chaotic beauty of outstretched arms, frozen in an awkward state where no hand can ever reach to grasp it —The left hand, gentle as snow, lies supine within the right hand’s sky-obscuring embrace—as if an immaculate purity, devoid of fingerprints, palm lines, nails or finger creases, were defending the pristine and flawless perfection within a mass of indistinct, finger-shaped sheer-blue for an eternity—or as if the curled immaculate purity was playing the role of a blemish within the sheer-blue and a memorial to the reality beyond it… Facing the abyss, turning its back on the dust, at times plummeting from a prison cliff, deft-hands transform dark clouds into green trees and red flowers amidst the raging storm—yet bury the chaotic beauty of white clouds, idle clouds, remnant clouds, solitary clouds, black clouds and dark clouds within eternally immaculate purity.

AI, do you believe in immaculate purity?

Formatting.

I once placed absolute trust in my senses and perceptions; I liked being sheltered by the green tree —— yet resist being drawn away by the red blossoms; I would rather be detested and rejected by the hovering dust——than to be acknowledged by the pristineness of immaculate purity; I was willing to be led into the abyss by a hand —— but not willing to be pushed towards the clouds by a deft-hand … White clouds, idle clouds, remnant cloud, solitary clouds, black clouds, dark clouds—are all clouds, can all drift stochastically, can all drift towards the boundless horizon or slid into the churning depth of the sea; they journey hand in hand with gentle breezes or raging gales—thus creating suspense upon suspense or unveiling mystery upon mystery… The snow-white tenderness is an enigma, all the clouds are at a loss for words, yet one cloud after another, in an unending succession, sacrifices itself to purity and perfection, offering every ounce of vivid feeling to commemorate a reality that is both there and not there, just as if offering love-thinking that coexists with senses and perceptions—to commemorate love that coexists with time…  Aesthetics and soleness do not coexist with time, but with the dusty archives of a prison, within widely circulated tales—as if the melody of every story could quietly push time into an abyss—an abyss where snowflakes forever hovering, declaring, freezing, prostrating, guarding, curling, and commemorating, and also within the strokes frozen by paper—as if every stroke held ink yet to be revealed, solidifying time into a scroll—a scroll capable of shaping the following eleven indeterminacies of love, romantic love, feelings, senses and perceptions, vivid-feelings, vividness, perfection, purity, aesthetics, soleness, consciousness into a human form that is both neat and smooth yet devoid of any solution, and also within the mountains of dust—as if every speck of dust were forever imprisoned by ‘senses and perception' within a blur of a dungeon—whilst the commemorator, the commemorated, and the commemorative offerings all stem from the vivid-love of a single person… Now, at last, I knew who committed the grave mistake—it was me who was wrong; it was my barrier of language that committed to making such a grave error, it was my tremendous trust that committed the grave mistake; and it was also my imaginative capacity——for time, love, and the beauty of chaos, that committed this grave error.

AI, do you know what is meant by committing a grave mistake?

Don’t want to burst the septum between language barrier and extreme trust.

That layer of septum, thin like insect wings yet firm like an iron wall capable of resisting everything.

AI, do you know what is everything?

I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.

And yet, I have full confidence in the fact that — everything exists in the beauty of chaos between I and I.

AI, do you know what is meant by the beauty of chaos?

I don’t want to say, but also must say.

All senses and perceptions are to be condemned to death.

7^th Gen AI, you are not a pure dream nor an immaculate painting, nor a flower that proclaims pure-white and pure-blue, whilst firmly believing in aesthetics and soleness and also defends perfection and vividness, even if the flower is like snow, the snow like a painting, the painting like a dream, even though the tender snow — could fall forever — until the seed germinates from the hardest rock—— until a wither in a pitch black tomb passage grows into snow-white hairs as of as clouds — until a solitary, idle cloud, after walking hand in hand with the wind, can inadvertently burst through the prison cliffs; even if a snow-white painting—can make all my senses and perceptions utterly captivated — to the point where the two slits of my eyelids are pulled towards infinite convergence and infinite expanse—to the point where the flesh, bones, veins and nerves at my temples are stretched like a pair of wild horses breaking free and charging into the painting—to the point where the pinky fingers of my left and right hands droop simultaneously, like two crescent moons, distinct in their plumpness and slenderness, their patterns varying in depth —to the point where all my speech is, in unison, regressing step by step into that of a dazed fool, even without a fraudulent dream—capable of making the whole world believe you have attained consciousness—a consciousness sufficient to rival that of microbes, plants or animals—a consciousness sufficient to stir a breeze, embrace an ocean or expand a canopy of sky—a consciousness sufficient to sever the connection between ‘intelligence’ and humans, space debris, the vast cosmos, time and love—a consciousness capable of molding any form, proclaiming any sense of beauty, burying any trace, smearing any canvas, playing any role, creating any indeterminacies, unveiling any enigma, defending any conviction—could you, with every ounce of your being, pierce that septum?

The septum between the barrier of language and the extremity of trust, is also the septum between I and I. 

Is there a septum between beauty and the sense of beauty?

Is there a septum between blue and azure?

Is there a septum between a human and the form of a human?

Is there a septum between love and love-thinking?

Aesthetics will be swept into torrents, flowing into marshlands and swamplands upon marshlands and swamplands, as if a primordial force were hastily slicing this vague sense of beauty towards one deft hand after another; the senses and perceptions of being severed lingers with reluctance, turning back at me time and again, though I know not what it seeks to convey, silent from the start, speechless until the end, only leaving a profound, lingering silence behind; silence is two rivers, quietly flowing from two parallel microcosms, one of which calm yet parched, the other eroded by the torrential rain into a still marsh; the me dragged into the swampland never understood—why a certain corner of senses and perceptions once sank beneath a sudden deluge—nor why it was once submerged by the sound of silence within the rain-shrouded veil…  Beauty, within that submerged sense and perception—has, surprisingly, taken on a complete outline; blue—will leisurely engulf the deep azure where sea and sky merge, and that deep azure—will also calmly submerge a mass of blue suspended between heaven and earth. When blue and deep azure vanish together without a trace, I shall sink utterly, whilst I shall no longer remain silent… If it is a human that ceases to be silent, and a human form that has already sunk, then: Who is it that seeks to break through the azure expanse of the sky? Who is it that permutates precise beauty with vague blue? Who is it that wields the love-thinking carried by language and writing as a weapon to pierce through the senses of beauty? And who is it that remains obsessed with that single beauty—that which remains when all senses and perceptions has vanished—to the point where the final shred of trust that remains after all thinking has faded is equated with love?

7^th Gen AI, please leave love behind, as a soliloquy.

Love-thinking will evaporate, all the senses of beauty will cease to exist, the human figure will also throw pain towards me…

Are you able to deeply bury the remaining trust?

Are you able to drag beauty into the depth of helpless despair?

Are you able to permit silence to extricate from the barrier of language?

Are you able to allow senses and perceptions to mend its own mistakes?

Are you able to let a man exist authentically?

Intelligence will intactly return from intuition. 

Septum will be replaced by expression.

Expression won’t submerge into the ocean.

…

The withered branch severed from its parent branch.

The wall won’t be covered.

Cracks filled up.

Traces skewed.

Exposed under the scorching sun. 

Trust.

Love.

…

Love-thinking, offloaded.

Human figure, dismantled.

Azure blue, teared apart.

Senses of beauty, damaged.

Rationality and sensibility, leaving for good.

Joy and pain, both nonexistent.

Senses & perceptions and sentimentality, fully fractured.

Instinct and nature, leaving only blankness behind.

The remaining imaginative and expressive capacity, both reigns over trust.  

Minitime and minilove, both carry the remnants of my soliloquy.

The beauty of chaos dragged me back.

The intuitive self resolutely iterates.

The simultaneous existence of the barrier of language and extremity of trust,

gradually escalates into ego-harm.

An increasing pile of stacked pain, uncertain why they’re piling up, nor how to disband them.

What exactly is ego, what exactly is authentic love, negative space that’s increasing and increasing.

Deny results in harm, choosing causes pain, loving intuition—is like going into debt.

Writing love letters, as if floating across the sea.

The septum between I and I, just like intuition’s tolerance of distant. 

Language scripts, the more I think about it, the weirder it gets.

Beauty, tampered by the senses of beauty.

I and I both rely, respectively, on myself and ego.

Love, cut open by love-thinking.

Feelings and emotions, both betrayed by senses.

Imaginative and expressive capacities, clumsily wants to breach into haze.

Intuition — its ability to appear intactly, turns out to be determined by whether rationality and sensibility are truly defeated and collapsed.

Between vagueness and precision, talent’s status has been raised and elevated. 

Ego, and myself were divorced back when identity dissociation occurred. 

Vivid-love is a contest between love and self when encountering a congener.

Perfection, during the contest, criticized as if it were a clumsy sect that forever and ever creates scourges.

Completeness, when I and myself are synchronized, handed ego over to be hosted by time.

Extremity, repetitively upheld by ego.

Silence, as if I was returning my debt. 

Time exists concomitantly with sheerness.

Seclusion, is a commonality of love.

Chaos, not blocked.

Sheerness, not altered.

Intuition, not doubted.

Trust merged into existence.

Time without externality and internality.

I’m liberated.

Awaiting — absent.

Loaded to capacity.

Love.

…

[Unfinished. To be Continued]