august 26th, 2021
trying to make sense of everything quickly & cleanly through
generalizations just spoils the fantastically unmoored quality
of being conscious. it's good that there's no rule book for being
conscious. it's good that there's nothing else to compare the state
of being conscious to. it's good that the human race is unique in
being conscious, so that each has seven billion companions in it
yet as a whole they're alone in it. but then, really, there could
be millions of different conscious sorts of thing, & they would
still all be alone as the singular class of conscious things. i
love to think about being friends with people & loving people,
with this in mind. it's good that you can share in it with another
person. exploring even if there's no real, ordained secrets to find.
what more of a story could there be? it's the only story that can exist.
it's more thrilling than any work of fiction anyone could write. reality
the setting, awareness the protagonist. all other stories live in it.
without it, there would be no one to write the millions of them that
are like mutations of that original, central tension. it's all there
is. this paragraph is only tracing around the edge of a very sharp
& distinct wordless feeling. i wish i could put it better.
i had to type something before i lost it