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Echoes and Mirrors» Blog Archive » oh you know, those things that bother me but might not bother you so much.

oh you know, those things that bother me but might not bother you so much.

Notes from the book. Associated research, citations, etc. are not important. The incomprehensible gibberish that strings my philosophy together is.

The idea of ‘god’ has been on my mind quite a bit for the last few weeks as well, mostly prompted by the sudden realization that most of my family has (during the past six years, I’m guessing) undergone some sort of revival. The exception, for the time being, is my own parents. They raised me as a free-thinker; I wasn’t not allowed to go to church if I chose to do so, but never forced to either. The idea of god, therefore, simply baffles me. On the other hand, they’re probably just as baffled by my Ayahuasca induced spiritualism.

“God? I don’t know about that, but I did have a chat with someone in a kaleidoscope once. Nearly made me shit myself.” This usually illicits very little response and I can sense pity in their voices. As if all I had accomplished was a zany hallucination that’s left me brain-damaged. Yet I can still analyze human behavior and pick-out the droplets of discontent in everything else they say -most of which I’m convinced that they don’t fully understand myself -and I cannot fathom why the phychology of this situation hasn’t destroyed them yet.

Honesty is almost worse than lying, in almost every situation. The truth, for all intents and purposes, sucks. I don’t want to hear it and I can feel my heartrate slow, my bloodpressure drop and my coporeal anchorage slip when I do. But some part of my mind ignites and its almost as if I see happy little synapses firing. To understand that other individuals really do think differently than you is a bizarre revelation. They don’t simply disagree and they will never understand why you like the smell of lilacs; they do not see the world in the same way you do, but do not realize that you don’t see the same way they do. And they’re just as real as you are. There is no language perfect enough to explain how I feel about the taste of an apple, but I can assure you that the scraping, juicy sweetness that rushes across my hard palate and is rough against my gums is nearly as good as anything ever has been. You cannot experience it the same way I do and you never will.

The fact that we’re all essentially the same, but so vastly different is something that I imagine actually keeps my heart beating. And to imagine that it has all been the creation of some holy creator makes everything bland, replicated and unimportant. The understanding gained from experience would cease to matter: the warm rush of wine, the softness of a lover’s thigh, crunching on ice-cubes, wind, colors, thoughts. Because these bodies we possess are interesting and malleable, but worthless for self-improvement.

There is a reasonable argument that our minds are neither the same as or the sum of our brain’s activities. More like a conduit from some other place, for which there is no rational explanation or name, let alone a rational concept of. Many people, I suspect, call this peripheral thought that wanders into their thoughts every now and again God. Or whatever.

I cannot help but wonder why, even with this knowledge, fear is the most influential emotion on the human psyche. And I mean the Cthulhu horror scale fear that lurks deep inside every person –the fear of the end of all existence. It’s a solipistic fear, that when say, I have expired, everything else will too. And it is there just under a few more layers of excuses for masturbating and buying mid-grade gasoline and why you never approached that girl last Tuesday despite her checking you out. Is the world white painted on a black canvas instead of the idealistic reverse? Happiness being the escape from material fear? Being content is then the same as the knowledge that a levee holds this emptiness at bay.

Yet some people look into the vast emptiness of space and are enchanted and filled with hope -do they believe that a million angels can dance on the head of a nail? The supposition is not as far fetched as one might imagine, I imagine. Homo Sapien Sapien is a crude vehicle, and it’s exhaust system is foul, the sixty-year result most often being the understanding that there never was any escape from the vehicle and that the ride does end. And that everyone dies alone. This isn’t to say you cannot die fulfilled. I’m sure many have.

And I can’t help but imagine that somehow, there is an echo of my first thought zinging through the universe right now, lost and confused, searching for this ‘God’. I wish success to that errant thought, but I cannot dwell on this too long: there is an aching in my loins that seems to be a more pressing matter at the moment. Blasted psyche!

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