All that must be done is to delimit the sphere of your influence down to the place wherein it belongs: home, here, now; this is what it takes to get the caged bird to sing: the simple denotion of place, of season, of the helix that is time and inevitability and spontaneity. The cipher that we encode from our embattled sites of life engagement is the formula that connects the dots of the universe. The enmeshment of disparate atomized beings into a whole one picture that is neither pinnacle nor perfection but at the very least, us and everything and complete for the moment until we fragment forward into the continual struggle for progress. Progress, really, is a simple diminution of progression–a narrative enjoining codexed frames, forming of each a totality that lingers at its finish, a completion that negates itself into a recreative force of action or thought in another entity. An insemination, a secretion of meaning that can only push, build momentum, act as a wind in the halls of acceptable candor, thrusting a challenge of betterment into the static norms that define the immediate past. All of this is relative to each individual understanding, but ultimately answerable only to a collective engagement of agreement, a cult acceptance that intakes the information for deeper rumination.
This is as much to say that politics and power is more than just personal: the forces that generate change and define the manner and form by which society engages with itself are self-created and crafted from within—but more importantly, from within an engagement that is ultimately beyond. Beyond personality and bordering sublimity. Encroaching omega supramentality, a tugging of spirit impulsions, a development defined by environment and place and time but impelled by eternity, impulsed by a necessity for a completion that can never be had. A form of death that is life, that defines and outlays the struggle for existence itself, an expenditure of energy in the attempt to fill an impossible void. This is our struggle, your struggle, my struggle. Yet we are not hopeless, for the void, though impossible, is a void of the forces of our own making. We are of this void, crafted of this void, expanding endlessly towards a point wherein we must become again this emptiness beyond emptiness, this form beyond form, within form, against form.