Slow the mind. Let it triangulate. Let it rectangulate. Let it permabulate, methodically, with peace and patience, marching steadfastly towards the stars.

Vector angles do not decline or arise. There is no verticality or horizonticality to them. There are only subtle delineations, no measurement, just the preternatural context for volume. They serve only to give direction, but direction within the preconceived patterns of what the aim of this all was for.

But what was the aim of it all? Was there any focus, any volition, beyond the arising tide each morning in the advent of dawn? Awoken from the splendor of sleep, the mind would trebuchetically inclinate and derivate. It would look for a posture in wheelhouse at the front of the ship to gaze meanderingly at all the day could bring, the week could bring, the next episode of life could bring. Pretentious clairvoyant searching. That is how the mind would awaken from slumber.

But for all of this grasping would there ever be direction? Within the confines of the perpendicular mind, would there ever be focus beyond seeking? There would not, even though the mind would always project the appearance of volition, of motivation. But the scattered, wistful and unfocused mind does not seek direction. It only seeks to clutter the space of consciousness as it arises from the unperturbed grace of the unconscious mind.

Awaking from sleep, awaking to weep

Tears of sporadic dislocation into places

Of unintended action or volition

It is the decadently unprecise mind

Wrapped up in the decay of clutteration

That would cloud over every

Aspiration of the dawn

Every rising sun on the empty line of the horizon

To obscure it with pointless patterns of fragmentation

It is the vector that would provide direction to the mind. The analytically aberrant vector, with no upward or downward movement, no vertical or horizontal expansion or stretch, only a subtle course of action, seeks its way through the scattered, heaped up, miscarried, clumped together, miserly unreleased, coagulated corpuscle of the turgid, meandering unfocused mind. The vector, saddled with the contextual gelatinous curdled glob of the directionless, lollygagging mind, would bring it to the focus of thin thistle reed mindful moments, and steer its eye to open at the aperture of the dawn.

It is the volumeless, pointless, contextless, volitionless vector, disengaged within the wasteland of the mind, pulled up, stretched and straightened out, that exists within to give direction and focus to the meandering mind. To the recently awoken plateau of consciousness.

It is this vector that we must uncover, exposed by the light of the dawn, to take upon ourselves as we turn our eyes without. The vector, without preconception or premonition, would give us direction for the passage of our feet for each new day.

What is the vector? From where does it arise? It arises within. It is given birth by the universal direction of the divine.