Spirit17
07-14-00, 02:27 AM
If my words made any sense at all would they be understood? After all, words are just words without an interpetive mind to analize them.
If my mind were real could it be photographed, touched and heard?
I speak no language, well I do. But it isn't MY language. I know not how to use it. And yet, I communicate within its rules, think within it's boundaries.... No wonder I'm so confused. I don't even know what I believe in anymore. Am I even real? What is real?
matter?
energy?
No, it can't be. Those things are merely shadows. Why? call this logic illogical than I must not be clear. But what I feel is this.. The only known certainty, the only constant in the universe is Me. By me I mean...ME! whatever that is. My thoughts, my dreams, my pain, my joy. Those are the things I hold dear. A nuerologist peers beneathe the surface of my skull, and finds what? gas, chemicals, strange grey globs of noodle like material. So you must ask yourself. Is that all that is? I still don't see anything that resembles what I'm experience-ing. I dont see why it should be possible that the luxurious furnature in a place called home can be described by simply gawking at the house's wooden extirior. Why not convert those electrical signals to...whatever. I bet you'd find what you were looking for. You'd go home thinking the mystery is complete and yet... I feel it's just begun. Reality defined from the mouthes of others is stale, and by stale I mean unmoving, unevolving. I find this place called concouseness unatural, it isn't home. What I call home some call dreaming, it is that place that feels natural. It is in that place that I am completely immersed in whats real. Where I explore the mysterys associated with conscousness from the inside looking out. Rather than the other way around. What I call home is music....Well, some of it. Music huh, the sound of a simple strum of the guitar can evoke sensations beyond descripiton, so organized, so beautiful and yet...beyod d e s c r i p t i o n. Their not thoughts, their different. I'm listning to a fav. song right now, and so what if it's the brain feeding me endorphines or (insert big long sci word here) for the advantage of the body. What I'm feeling is something completely outside the speres of that mode of language. It's every breathe I take, it's every tear I shed, it's my every and all, it has no physical basis, only shadows. What it is isn't real by definition...but I can feel it in my bones.
If my mind were real could it be photographed, touched and heard?
I speak no language, well I do. But it isn't MY language. I know not how to use it. And yet, I communicate within its rules, think within it's boundaries.... No wonder I'm so confused. I don't even know what I believe in anymore. Am I even real? What is real?
matter?
energy?
No, it can't be. Those things are merely shadows. Why? call this logic illogical than I must not be clear. But what I feel is this.. The only known certainty, the only constant in the universe is Me. By me I mean...ME! whatever that is. My thoughts, my dreams, my pain, my joy. Those are the things I hold dear. A nuerologist peers beneathe the surface of my skull, and finds what? gas, chemicals, strange grey globs of noodle like material. So you must ask yourself. Is that all that is? I still don't see anything that resembles what I'm experience-ing. I dont see why it should be possible that the luxurious furnature in a place called home can be described by simply gawking at the house's wooden extirior. Why not convert those electrical signals to...whatever. I bet you'd find what you were looking for. You'd go home thinking the mystery is complete and yet... I feel it's just begun. Reality defined from the mouthes of others is stale, and by stale I mean unmoving, unevolving. I find this place called concouseness unatural, it isn't home. What I call home some call dreaming, it is that place that feels natural. It is in that place that I am completely immersed in whats real. Where I explore the mysterys associated with conscousness from the inside looking out. Rather than the other way around. What I call home is music....Well, some of it. Music huh, the sound of a simple strum of the guitar can evoke sensations beyond descripiton, so organized, so beautiful and yet...beyod d e s c r i p t i o n. Their not thoughts, their different. I'm listning to a fav. song right now, and so what if it's the brain feeding me endorphines or (insert big long sci word here) for the advantage of the body. What I'm feeling is something completely outside the speres of that mode of language. It's every breathe I take, it's every tear I shed, it's my every and all, it has no physical basis, only shadows. What it is isn't real by definition...but I can feel it in my bones.