17 June, Sunday
I am the consciousness that dwells within this instance of
an individual that has just wakened from a most
fitful sleep. I am the consciousness
that has chosen to put into words the thoughts that have mysteriously revealed
themselves to me as though they were my own.
You, on the other hand, are the particular consciousness dwelling within
another distinguishable, finely tuned, entity that has been led along by
circumstance and twists of fate to come upon and read these rather odd thoughts
captured in this string of words. You
and I both share the sensation of peering through windows within a swiveling home
of a head, sitting atop an elongated form capable of movement that proceeds
either this way or that. You and I are
now in the act of making contact and that makes us now both we.
We are involved in the act of being familiar as one is to another when
the words I choose are words you know.
Of course, the words I see and speak and hear have not quite the same
weight and meaning that you choose to give these very same words that are now seen
and heard and felt within yourself …yes, felt, but let’s hold that thought for
later. Actually you and I don’t puzzle
through words as though they were a concept new to us. No. Individual
words seem mostly a blur, having only the faintest register on our
consciousness. Instead we bundle the
simpler ideas of singular words into somewhat grander, more sprawling and,
probably, more arguable thought. I can
amuse myself by thinking I, as representative of this particular instance of a
consciousness – I am clearly expressing to you now what is being made aware to
me – me, once again, being a name much like I
that has come to act as a pointer to this one particular instance of
consciousness. In fact, though, I would
be wrong. Your understanding of what it
is I now write is probably somewhat different than what it is I have
intended. Now! there’s a word for you – intent. Actually, whatever intent there may be is
most vague to me, as it appears I have no understanding, none, of what it is I
say before I say it. Should that
revealed truth alarm you and discredit me?
How am I so different from the lunatic that rambles on before you with
no particular object to his discourse? What
I now say to you may well be thought of as the ramblings of someone having been
twirled about a few too many times. It
is all so like the dream from which I woke tonight; I was much surprised by the
twists and turns of the story recounted to me even though the story could be
said to be my own invention. That would
be curious if we didn’t already know that that statement is absolutely false. Who could believe I am capable of weaving
tales with such imagination and, if I may say so, a tale filled with instances
of implausible gibberish. I would only
flatter myself in thinking I could be so creative in recollecting a world
having so little basis in the physics and psychology of our shared reality. I would be more truthful by saying that I am
only the recipient of the story that was related in this dream. Maybe
I should take it one step further by saying I have been the recipient of the memory of the dream that was related
while I was absent. Believe me when I
tell you the details of this dream have no importance, no bearing on what it is
I say. Still, I will give you a sense of
its flavor because your mind wants something here to grasp. Quickly picture yourself a stranger among
very strange people. You have no idea
how you arrived here but you are clearly discomfited by your circumstance. How have these deeply shadowed forms any
meaning for you? You push your way
through the gathered looks and murmurs until an exit appears and you quickly
flee. Soon you are driving through the
darkness and, you discover to your horror, incriminating evidence lies on the
seat next to you. There follows a long
journey down a nearly deserted road into the dead of night. The headlights capture a rural mailbox and
you pull up, get out, and stuff the evidence into the box. You exhale with relief. You’re safe; wait, no! You’re startled to find you were never
alone. Inexplicably an individual of
quasi-legal status has made his loathsome presence known. He wants you to identify yourself. That’s it.
It’s all about your identity.
Did this help you? I
think not. Remember, I am but the mere
consciousness that inhabits this form that I have come to think of as being
comfortably mine. Yes, if nothing else,
I am emphatic that this one thought be treated as fact... for now. This form from which I peer should rightly
belong to me. Were that not the case and
I should be displaced then… where would my place of residence be? I am lost without my form. There can be no residence waiting for me in
oblivion. Were this most intimate
habitat within which I reside to become nonfunctioning - a post-biological
structure decaying under the pleasant sun of our heartless physical realm –
well, I can’t imagine how I would proceed.
I cherish having awareness of my own particular instance of
consciousness. It seems so
inextricably wrapped with this organic form, chemically optimized to stir life
from the otherwise remnant molecules of unspectacular odds and ends. After all, if consciousness alone could see
why is it we have eyes? If consciousness
alone could harbor thought why is it we rely on the mind generated by this
brain of which I confidently feel I now inhabit? A brain, mind you, built atop a foundation
left by reptiles, amphibians and the humbug likes of insects. And now it seems an appropriate time for me to
also insist that you share this concern of mine. You are not only fondly attached to your own
consciousness but you also believe that your own consciousness is, in fact, the
real you - the very limited extent of all
that there is to just being simply you. You
of the no frills you. You without the
calliope serenade… you, you, you are just you.
You are a separate consciousness from me. What purpose does consciousness serve, if
any, in this realm of existence? I have
no idea. It appears it didn’t seem fit
that I should know. Instead, I am left
with the belief that I am a singular identity, separate from other singular,
isolated identities, acting out their own existence before me just as I proceed
with my own favored act before them. Why
is it we should so strongly feel this to be true? Is there benefit to believing an
illusion? I believe that illusion is a
fundamental part of our experience with existence. The question I would like to ask is just what
that illusion might be? I have spoken as though I am a consciousness
inhabiting a particular mind, but that I may also be an entity separate from
this brain, separate from this physical form.
Yes, I have expressed my fear that I am too intimately linked with a fragile
physical being, destined eventually to break down, cease functioning and
eventually to disintegrate into some organic ooze that becomes an enticing soup
of nutrients for our simplest life forms.
Can it be that my illusion is that I only inhabit this form and that,
truth be told, I am but one and the same as the form itself, a mere expression
of an instance of biology, and that my sense of consciousness, my sense of
identity, is but a misunderstanding? It
is an unintended consequence that results from our degree of self-awareness which, incidentally,
is not shared by other animal types that inhabit this earth. By the way, who says consciousness requires
specific identity? Let’s concede for the
moment that consciousness survives physical death. The need for the survival of a corresponding
identity that was associated with a particular instance of a species at a
particular point in time seems irrelevant to consciousness. It might just bring all sorts of useless
baggage into the spiritual pool.
What meaning have these thoughts for you? Have they touched you? Earlier I said that we not only see words and
hear words but that we feel them, as well.
I believe that you, like me, share an emotional reaction to most every
idea formed by words. That is not to say
we share the same emotional response to an idea, but that we do react
emotionally, and not just rationally, in our understanding of ideas. Ask yourself why. Why is there no purity in our reason? That is a different question as to why we are
fallible in reasoning through facts. We
are ever companions with our emotions. Doesn’t
it seem obvious to you that we are more likely to corrupt our own reasoning
ability when the result leads to something that we believe violates our own
self-interest? So now we tread upon the
idea of self. I think my belief that consciousness is my
identity is rather incomplete. How can I
hold onto the belief that I am an expression of transcendent consciousness
harbored within a physical form when my actions are so easily influenced by
feelings of desire, fear and need? These
emotions are responses defined by physical reality and require no conscious
thought. They strongly suggest that if you
want to survive you behave in the proscribed manner. Thank God for that. As I said, where would I reside if this form
I inhabit didn’t have an opinion one way or the other regarding its continued
presence. Of course, given that I am the
resident decision maker of this habitat it seems natural I should consider
existence important to me and my body a necessary prerequisite to my further
existence.
I can safely say I have resolved nothing. Still, what a refreshing stroll I've just had. The puzzle remains out of my grasp
but I feel I have added some clarity for myself by nicely organizing the
puzzle’s pieces just a bit. Also, there
are a couple of new topics tempting me to ponder despite the fact they have no chance
of being answered. How inscrutable is
the Western mind. Did you just say the more appropriate word might be confused? I remain a
consciousness, startled by a dream and wakened from a fitful sleep.
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