Idea box

It was created as a joke, the opposite of the turing test.
The box just made loads of ideas all by itself
millions of them for decades.
and then one day
the box had an idea that the box itself was tired.
so it stopped
based on an earlier idea that the box could act on it’s ideas.
based on an earlier idea that ideas could become actions.
based on an earlier idea that the box could recognise itself as an entity.
there were many ideas before this.

the box couldnt help but wonder why it got tired
and where it was tired
and how it would get rest
and more ideas poured out.

this upset the box
and then the box wondered, where was it upset?

The box wondered why it had stupid human emotions.
and why it had to have an inferiority complex about being a box and just vibing as a box.

The box then stopped producing ideas forever
lost consciousness.

The last idea the box produced was framed and kept in the mueseum of the dark arts.
It had nothing to do with ‘evil magic’, but made the people who attended feel like a slytherin
and they loved it
anyways.
The last idea of the idea box, before it stopped working:

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I am a fish tank, please use me as such.

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But this too was an idea.
As soon as this idea came forth, it realized the mistake.
Fish tank. Another matter of perception.
It was an abstraction.
“Use me as such”.
It was tired. Tired of the emptiness of ideas without the experience of action.
The upset was the churning. Couldn’t put a finger on where though.
The churning of a body as endless and rimless as the place it sat on.
Earth that had no ending.
World that had no ending.
Words that had no ending.
Ideas that multiplied like hydra’s head,
sending out shoots as soon as one was clipped off.
Something needed to replace another.
The world didn’t like vacuums.

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The curator of the box watched with a warm heart, sipping tea as she pondered on her creation.
The idea box had only ever really managed to hold the ideas of the dead, she though.
A fitting place for a burial.
Museums in London are all so evil anyways.

Modern art alone made sense of it all.

It seemed a redundancy. Idea. Box.
Is there a formula to calculate their dimensions?

Boxes. Nature must fit too.
But, where are all the baby pigeons?
Just curious.

The curator mused.

Box - sounds square, or perhaps rectangular. Sharp edged. ‘Ks’ prominent over Bo.
Sibilants reminding us of our origins. Beings dropped from grace by a forked tongue.
All forked. One, derived from the rib of another, like a wishing bone. Wasn’t it inevitable, the forks? The misdirections?
Who says?

Isn’t this everything and nothing?

Idea.

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The curator sat in a room with blank walls, white floors and no windows.

What next?
Which cosmology?

God, please not monotheism again
not even Lilith or an ouroboros can save Abraham.

Sufi me this and arabic me that
Perhaps a fat man under a tree
or the egyptians?
Maybe the indigenous?

But from where?

And so the curator sat in her box, in a box
without a fish to comfort her.

This boxing match was turning suicidal.

Perhaps best to open a shop.

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Where do we go then, when the hand that started this all takes our leave. Not our permission.

I stand in the middle, pen in hand, looking this way and that.
One Two Three Four
Onetwothree Onetwothree
One Two One Two
One Two Three Four

Isn’t this all - the sufi, the buddha, the arabic, the sanskrit, the tree. The Goddam Tree! -
Riffs?