I have seemingly have separated myself from the main body of popular discussion regarding unknown phenomenon, and while the majority of those I once considered peers seemed to have woven a spiders web of self created mythologies as an allergic reaction to the entropy of new ideas coming into the field, busying themselves with hermetic discussions in the popular parlance that endlessly repeat themselves by goosing this lack of momentum with variegation of set themes. I recently questioned the logic behind a certain theory and was told that this was an attempt to "sound intellectual" while the questioning of the premise that I posed remained, interestingly enough, unanswered. This struck me as a spider's web that simply caught the flotsam floating past to promote the flavor of the month as a temporal set piece that in abeyance to it's self referential footing could only resort to condescension of style rather than the ideas that were addressed as a potential refuting of it's premise. This is the art rather than science of the paranormal as it stands, albeit in a wobbling miasma of half baked stereotypes borrowed from the caricatures of cartoons. As the situation presents itself, I seem to be in a Zen of a third world that does not equate to the logics of my time that are reeled in from the dead civilizations of centuries past as the genome of spawning yet another emergent tragicomedy of mistaken identities, bald faced reductionism and a lack of behavioral consensus in consensus itself , another sort of toxic Zen applied to our natural state of perplexity.
Undoubtedly there are six degrees of separation in the flood of fixed ideas and associations tacked onto the subject of unidentified atmospheric phenomenon as fractals arising from the original imprint of the subconscious of unmet psychological needs arising from our planetary isolation just as there as as many attached to a monarchical series of Gods, each one aligned with the fog of purpose as an outgrowth of anthropomorphism.
"Encho was a famous storyteller. His tales of love stirred the hearts of his listeners. When he narrated a story of war, it was as if the listeners themselves were on the field of battle.
One day Encho met Yamaoka Tesshu, a layman who had almost embraced masterhood in Zen. "I understand," said Yamaoka, "you are the best storyteller in our land and that you make people cry or laugh at will. Tell me my favorite story of the Peach Boy. When I was a little tot I used to sleep beside my mother, and she often related this legend. In the middle of the story I would fall asleep. Tell it to me just as my mother did."
Encho dared not attempt to do this. He requested time to study. Several months later he went to Yamaoka and said: "Please give me the opportunity to tell you the story."
"Some other day," answered Yamaoka.
Encho was keenly disappointed. He studied further and tried again. Yamaoka rejected him many times. When Encho would start to talk Yamaoka would stop him, saying: "You are not yet like my mother."
It took Encho five years to be able to tell Yamaoka the legend as his mother had told it to him.
In this way, Yamaoka imparted Zen to Encho." -Zen Koan
In the last post separating emergent phenomenon from the term "purpose" has fogged the myopic vision of many a theoretical posture toward the unknown as the same could be said for the many varieties of monotheism, that have descended into the realm of stop gap propaganda, all aligned with the promotion of this purpose or that, based on the buried pragmatism of the same unmet needs that are seldom or never acknowledged outside of their architectural faux logic as a self referential terminology.
The emergent phenomenon of unidentified atmospheric anomalies have nothing to do with purpose as we define it in a narrow and small bookshelf of theoretical posturing. If anything even remotely resembling an anthropomorphic purpose has emerged from the subconscious of it's observers, is the human condition itself, isolated, mostly lunatic and prone to overlay questions with liminal mythologies.
My point being that we ourselves lack a precise definition of purpose and so all that follows is a side show of our own weak psychological condition, ready to follow the twelfth monkey off a cliff all due to the faux architecture of language, which is as abhorrent to me as most of my fellow specie members are in their consensual lunacies. And so the story as convoluted as it is begins where it ended in an alley past the stroke of midnight in the darkness of the human condition, roving past Poe and Hawthorne toward the twilight of acceptance that lies beyond the boundaries of this town's provincialism's, customs and isolation that yaw and pitch adrift in a coming storm of entropy and revolt that will neatly desconstruct itself by way of a butterfly effect once again beginning at it's original state to once again play the memories that afflict it, and so another cycling of another generation of the tale will be based on the the genetics that reconstitute the dry bones of lies to once again flourish under a foreign sun.
Roses, roses, roses, as they say remain in the ground of hubris, fertilized by myth as a perpetually emergent active phenomenon as psychological as any pathology of an animal species.
The hidden hides in plain sight as it always had.