Sunken Places

Writing about one thing just makes me crazy to write about a whole bunch of other things. The nights stretch long but hours run short. I'm in a mood. What qualifies as a real object or a real action? Social media is all about distraction, racing through the easy but unsatisfying dopamine hits. When something rings true I get these chills. It's not always pleasant or unpleasant but I live for these moments.

If we had more time, we'd be able to know everything and then perhaps we'd know real truth, all of it. But we don't have time, so we have to write and make things and hope that we left something for other people to move forward with, you know?

I really wonder who reads this nowadays. I keep thinking that I should polish things up more before taking my writing to an audience but looks like I won't be doing that anytime soon... and sod it. I'm just going to write the same way that I think. I hope you like it.

Thot Thot Thot

Human consciousness today is probably really different from thirty years ago, and that was also really different thirty years ago too. Not having to remember driving directions. Being able to communicate so much to people who aren't in the same room.

I don't think it's something we're aware of enough. There's a lot of pattern recognition involved in empirical perception. Most of the time we gravitate towards sameness and familiarity when we operate visually. It's a coping mechanism. It's comfortable.

Neuroscientists probably have a better grasp on what's happening.

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I started taking oil painting classes this year and they're enjoyable so far. I would like to paint more and draw more. I can write all I want here but it's not real until it's a physical thing, I think. There really is a lot of crap in the data universe, and it's forgotten instantly. The internet ends up a lot like our brains... storing a whole lot of useful things that can't be found just as you need them, and totally meaningless after you're gone.

Writing is just a process for now. A way to develop ideas and build my own system of beliefs. A lot of it is already there, but I need to get it out so that I can read it back again. Slash and burn and regrowth and again and again.

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Today Mummy and I took the lift after dinner. She said something about there being a bookstore on Level 4 and I said no, there isn't. She swore it was there, if not she'd cut off her head and give me to me. She pressed the Level 4 button and the lift moved upwards. I continued staring at the shop directory and I said nope, there isn't one here. The doors opened. She said really, I guess not then. I pressed the B1 button and we headed back downstairs. We ran some errands and walked towards the taxi stand. She said she needed to check something. She walked towards the information counter and asked the lady something. I already knew what. She continued walking on and I caught up with her. She said okay, I'm going to need my head back. 

Pooh Bear

Is there such a thing as truth then?

Yes, of course there is.

And can we know it?

Yes, we all know it. But not in the same way. There are so many different types of things in this world, and each specimen unique to itself. We're all connected to the truth, but a different aspect of it. That's why we know different things and say different things. That's why we disagree.

But are those different things all true? If they are derivative from the truth?

I think there's truth in every expression, but not necessarily as we intend. When we act or speak we make a dent on reality, on truth. We're part of it. The truth always comes out. When we tell stories the truth wiggles its way out. Even if it's a made up story. Lies express so much more than the truth does because they are stories which are inextricably linked to truth. Those relationships tell you more than the truth does.

Is the truth important?

Of course it's important. But it's not important to know all of it. We're all trying. In our own ways. We don't know what path to take. So it's important to go your own way.