Will Mists Lift? Poem by Ananya Guha

Where do we go when we go into raptness of thought? Visit the way stations of this poem to make forays. We virtualize our reality to a greater or lesser degree, and it does not require a computer. This is not the problem of a hyper-mediated future; it is the perennial problem of the hypercomputer called mind. We leave the sensorimotor loops to drive their own car, being internally restless. The floating locus of consciousness must enact time through change, being lost for a time to the orientations that it itself maintains. It sets itself at a remove from what it encapsulates, tying it with a ribbon and sending it off downstream. Memories are habitual signs, not fleshed out in color, yet are wrapped in dreams to be retrievable. A special moment feels like the seed of a civilization, its grand conception engorged with our passion, but time drains it of vitality. Even the pang of regret is mist that locates us in no particular place. How far could such non-locatedness ever be seen into? Ah mist! The hyphen-roads project new journeys at each turn, in fitful succession through the theater where we have seen so many fall back into our dust. The formations are various, but all are stretched over the abyss, hence each knowing its own kind of death. What is substantive is the need to proceed, but each bid to proceed must go through its seasons. A song bespeaks a thread, enticing with hope of continuity, calling us to a sacred goal. If we cannot see where all this is taking us, we must ask when the mists will lift. If we cannot set ourselves squarely enough upon a path to celebrate it, then we must ask when the mists will lift.