KEEP PLANNING time / space / about #035 Macy Craig Silo Progression

In the beginning, when there was nothing, and the earth was so dark and dry and perfect, when God took His hand and moved it through that void, there was no sound. And as he moved, He felt no resistance. In that perfect wisdom, he did not know what He did not feel, because it was not imaginable at this time. And when He moved, He moved from nothing to nothing. He covered no space: from the edge of the field to the edge of the field, like a folded sheet of paper where distance is unmeasurable from tears and intrusions. He spent many days this way, reaching through the void, which of course was not a void, and searching for the inspiration to begin the first day. In this time, He had many dreams. In one, he was a creature in a brilliant white expanse. This creature, when erect, floated thirteen feet above a pool of pink glittering sludge. This is how the idea came for the creatures that would rotate and mulch themselves into different shapes and iterations. And this was the idea for water. In between these dreams, He did not wait. There was no tethering except that which was consciousness. There was no one and nothing else. Because of this, there was no loneliness. And so it came to be that for some time, or no time at all, the world did not begin. When he moved his hands, his head, his eyes, he understood that without action he would keep moving, but never achieved any sort of ideals, because these deals were not constructed. In this place, He had no ideas. There was nothing to change, nothing to be except for what he was. He stayed. Alone on this ground now, when the sun makes its rotation from window to window, he waits in silence. In between these visions, moments of excruciation where nothing is felt. On top of the dome, there are windows for each hour, equally spaced, and curved to adapt for the inevitability of its pinnacle. The walls are all ridges like abdomens. The whole thing is a body. He is in it. He experiences it only as it is, without the ability to shape or change it. He watches the light and measures its window movement. He feels nothing except for what he feels, which is not in this place. He can only see his nose when he crosses his eyes, and then cannot unsee it. In this space, he has no guarantee that he is still allowed a body. When there is no one else, when there is no assurance, there of course is nothing. When his consciousness begins to float, he is not able to look down. He is not able to understand the places where he is. He spirals, as if perfectly placed between the ridges being pulled up. Pain, like being split open. Punctured in silence, and below some door to some other place that keeps tugging. The smell of a life he has deferred, but not by lack of wanting. Somewhere between living and dying there is a state of inertia. Somewhere between the knees and the ground is a place of violence. The body melds with the air and the space. He has been folded and torn. He floats, his identity becoming intrusion. He stays. Against the bustle of the burgeoning world, He was above it. He defined Himself by His distance from it, and when He moved, He was aware of the resistance he faced. The world was glittering and pink and viscous. He was defined by His hatred towards it. There were things below Him that he did not and will never understand. He was uncomfortable. Now, His place was finite. He looked at an infinite section finality and became afraid. He turned away from all of it, refusing to let it in. When it called for him, He did not listen. When He slept, he dreamed of everything happening to Him at once, and there was nothing He could do to stop it. He saw things that He could not understand. He saw places that had not yet been formed. He saw creatures that were yet to mulch and decided they were terrifying. In His sleep, He spoke and bent objects and changed their directions. It was then when He began thinking terrible things. When He saw things built, He imagined them razed, and He made it so. Then, against the vision of everything, He realized that there was nothing beyond Him. In every place He knew, He was. When He made sound, He did not make it for Himself, and nothing done served Him, but served His place above the burgeoning world He had designed. And in the face of every option in front of Him, in a space so torn it became nothing, He made a decision. He stayed. In the complete darkness of night, when the windows bleed into the air and into nothing, he allows himself to close his eyes. It is understood that a stationary body, celestial or corporeal, is susceptible to the systemic violence of decay. If something lonely can imagine togetherness, it is only so to itself. And in these moments of light, he imagines that the movement of his spirit can save himself. In between and before his two bodies, he had inhabited others. He practices them, the way they have been. He chews on them and decides what is good. He wears his old clothes and skin and weight in his mind, which is so far divorced from his current self. And in the darkness apparent by the absence of this light porogression, he slips into his first body. He scatters like glass shards at the first sound. They flow away like water into the green brush, their weapons in hand. This time, before time fully cemented, as it became sludgy and cool and alive, he thought for the first time about what being old would be like. He imagines schematic completion. Seminary school, the whole nine-yards. After the sound and the pain and the movement, there is only stillness. They ask him if he knows prayers. In the jungle now, it is like a time before the beginning, and some move without resistance and crash through the bodies of others. In this way, there becomes no such thing as a body, and a body takes up no space at all. He makes up words that will quiet them. More sound in the distance. He stays. When everything known was crushed and ground into shards, He did not know until it was finished. This frightened Him. What was lost was tangible and physical, and He did not understand the full space they inhabited. He decided to differentiate space. In His hands, he could hold much less or much more than there was, and could not realize these things until they were fully destroyed. In the moment that followed, He filled the space with His voice, and He became the importance. And then, there was no one to speak back to Him. In the absence of cause, He rationalized. He felt the words fall out of His mouth without realizing what they were made of or what they intended. He was compelled in His movement without direction. As He moved over the water, He moved over the lifelessness and made it changed. He decided that if it was too late for Him to turn back, He would have been unable to move at all. He wondered if that time, that time where He could move freely across timeless spaceless expanse, was blessed. When He wondered what was sacred, He wept, as He could think of nothing big enough to fit this tear, this protrusion in this paper which had become so abused that it no longer existed. He imagined the end of it, the darkness and He felt His perimeters squeeze. He stayed. In the absence of darkness, he sees no light. The beginning of the silo progression serves as a reminder of his corporeal needs. There is no foundation, as there is nothing left to build. There is nothing outside this structure, he is sure of it now. Below him, the kernels, now soaked in his piss and tears, shift beneath his weight, and he is enveloped mid-progression. For the first time in his life, he is lucid. This weightless fall, far different from the one that took his body, put him here, he is finally aware of darkness as it roars to surround him. Over two silo light progressions of stillness and capture, moving through timeless space inside these metal walls. The fall. Final body, the one broken beyond repair and discarded. The student; the soldier; the farmer; the body. There is nothing left external. In the seed he has gathered and squirreled, he is buried. He is no longer of himself, so he can think this. His vision of climbing that ladder and leaving this progression space. In this way, he yearns for diffusion, There is nothing fit for this, no words ever learned. Inertia which has never once ended, inertia which gives him life as he is drawn down, down, down. As the spirit was moving over the water, he imagined it as it was. There will be many silo sun progressions before they end, and never can one be missed. In light and dark, he gives in absence. He stays.

*** Macy Craig lives in Missouri. 28 February 2026