Wilting beneath the power of his ignorance.
The development of aptitude often defies perception. It exists in steps, the ascent of which can only be viewed from a detached distance. The transition from step-to-step rarely feels like transition at all; it is like a rectilinear continuation. One assumed trapped within shiftless stagnation. It is here most will forfeit a pursuit. Too many incorrect notes distract from the increased instance of correct notes. It is only when one is prepared to experience failure, to bury themselves in the heart of its heart, that achievement can be found. It is only with the detachment of time’s passage that ascent reveals itself.
In the history of his readings, Rollo becomes aware of aptitude’s path. The rise of true confidence unattached to the façades erected by ego. He taught himself to understand numbers by force of will. These new numbers seem to mock his aptitude. Any translation appears lost as those attempted in his early records. Nothing he already knows is applicable to now. Ingrid and the baby have knocked his focus off-balance, rendering the required will impossible.
Rollo is immured in the non-Prefrontal Chambers, forbidden access to that which he wants most. This is the reality in which he broods. He remains with the indecipherable readings in the Cerebellum Chamber, forgoing food and water as though this forced decrepitude will punish Ingrid. The slowly ticking numbers are obsessed over. As obsession increases and ignorance screams, the less the numbers mean. Inquiry is replaced with projected outcomes of foreboding. Lack of understanding is a blank canvas on which to paint paranoia. Everything unknown is danger and harm.
He vacillates between directing his resentment toward Ingrid, then the baby. As the pendulum directs blame at one, he feels great sympathy for the other, until the swing shifts and attitudes are reversed. In one reality the baby is an innocent tool used by Ingrid to manipulate the fort’s dynamic. In another, Ingrid is the tool, being used as a conduit for an external malevolence in the baby’s form.
Logic attempts to steer Rollo toward reason and probability. Probability suggests neither Ingrid nor the baby intend harm upon him or the fort. It is natural for one to seek the continuation of life, the advent of legacy. Were it not for the drive exemplified by Ingrid, life could not continue. How can one place blame on a baby for existing? These logical tangents only add guilt to Rollo’s mounting paranoia. The logic is not powerful enough to vanquish the paranoia. The two dance about Rollo’s skull, one gaining the upper hand before losing it to the other.
He stares at the numbers. Through the numbers. Waiting and conflict define him.
…
Ingrid need only attach the head and her baby is complete. A sense of peace prevents the execution of this final step. When the head is sewn into place, the baby is born and Rollo must be permitted access. Ingrid feels compelled to protect the baby from all potential harm, which, to her horror, includes Rollo. She assumes this is maternal instinct, which is a reasonable protective mechanism, but the guilt refuses to diminish. Rollo would never cause her baby harm. She knows this. It is his baby too. Any involvement he enforces upon the process is the result of love. Of excitement.
Her hands glow with the vitality of creation. The nearly formed expression of life exists as a testament to what she is capable of. Who she is. What she can achieve beyond Rollo’s intervention.
She holds the unattached head aloft, rotating it slowly in her hand. Experiencing its existence. Her eyes drink in the details to ensure an intimate understanding unlike any other. This is Ingrid’s son. A manifestation of her. She brings the woolen head toward her face and rubs it against her beard. The head longs for attachment to its body. Ingrid longs for this attachment too and knows it cannot be delayed. Life wants what it wants
The development of aptitude often defies perception. It exists in steps, the ascent of which can only be viewed from a detached distance. The transition from step-to-step rarely feels like transition at all; it is like a rectilinear continuation. One assumed trapped within shiftless stagnation. It is here most will forfeit a pursuit. Too many incorrect notes distract from the increased instance of correct notes. It is only when one is prepared to experience failure, to bury themselves in the heart of its heart, that achievement can be found. It is only with the detachment of time’s passage that ascent reveals itself.
In the history of his readings, Rollo becomes aware of aptitude’s path. The rise of true confidence unattached to the façades erected by ego. He taught himself to understand numbers by force of will. These new numbers seem to mock his aptitude. Any translation appears lost as those attempted in his early records. Nothing he already knows is applicable to now. Ingrid and the baby have knocked his focus off-balance, rendering the required will impossible.
Rollo is immured in the non-Prefrontal Chambers, forbidden access to that which he wants most. This is the reality in which he broods. He remains with the indecipherable readings in the Cerebellum Chamber, forgoing food and water as though this forced decrepitude will punish Ingrid. The slowly ticking numbers are obsessed over. As obsession increases and ignorance screams, the less the numbers mean. Inquiry is replaced with projected outcomes of foreboding. Lack of understanding is a blank canvas on which to paint paranoia. Everything unknown is danger and harm.
He vacillates between directing his resentment toward Ingrid, then the baby. As the pendulum directs blame at one, he feels great sympathy for the other, until the swing shifts and attitudes are reversed. In one reality the baby is an innocent tool used by Ingrid to manipulate the fort’s dynamic. In another, Ingrid is the tool, being used as a conduit for an external malevolence in the baby’s form.
Logic attempts to steer Rollo toward reason and probability. Probability suggests neither Ingrid nor the baby intend harm upon him or the fort. It is natural for one to seek the continuation of life, the advent of legacy. Were it not for the drive exemplified by Ingrid, life could not continue. How can one place blame on a baby for existing? These logical tangents only add guilt to Rollo’s mounting paranoia. The logic is not powerful enough to vanquish the paranoia. The two dance about Rollo’s skull, one gaining the upper hand before losing it to the other.
He stares at the numbers. Through the numbers. Waiting and conflict define him.
…
Ingrid need only attach the head and her baby is complete. A sense of peace prevents the execution of this final step. When the head is sewn into place, the baby is born and Rollo must be permitted access. Ingrid feels compelled to protect the baby from all potential harm, which, to her horror, includes Rollo. She assumes this is maternal instinct, which is a reasonable protective mechanism, but the guilt refuses to diminish. Rollo would never cause her baby harm. She knows this. It is his baby too. Any involvement he enforces upon the process is the result of love. Of excitement.
Her hands glow with the vitality of creation. The nearly formed expression of life exists as a testament to what she is capable of. Who she is. What she can achieve beyond Rollo’s intervention.
She holds the unattached head aloft, rotating it slowly in her hand. Experiencing its existence. Her eyes drink in the details to ensure an intimate understanding unlike any other. This is Ingrid’s son. A manifestation of her. She brings the woolen head toward her face and rubs it against her beard. The head longs for attachment to its body. Ingrid longs for this attachment too and knows it cannot be delayed. Life wants what it wants
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