“To Dare is the secret of creation. To Know is the secret of happiness. To Persist is the secret of success. To Keep Silent is the secret of secrets.”
The word “mystery,” (which is what we’re all chasing after, “the Mysteries”) is derived from the Greek “myein,” which means “to keep the mouth shut”
Each of us embody different types of mimics of consciousness (that’s all humans can do: we mimic consciousness, not specifically spawn it ourselves). We haven’t the foggiest idea from whence it came nor to where it leads, and it seems arrogant in our eyes to claim that our neurochemical receptions and digital or analog projections/transmissions are the causal origin of the existence (and subsequent trajectory) of our actual outpouring of consciousness.
Not as a ‘thing’ in and of itself, but as a catalyst for generative activity that makes calculations, formulates design plans, and instructs the body’s posture angles and extremity muscles to execute.
We are receivers. We are transmitters. That makes us no more than mediums.
Player characters who have their crucial meat, cheese, and condiments of stimulus energetic drive fuel spark propulsion & sinuous emotional drift flux surge profit wedged between the buns of Ideation and Phenomenization—a formula depicting the po’ boy hero club grinder as a mental map of the elements to rival the greatest of all esoteric monoliths and mainstays we’ve come to rely upon as trusted resources for explaining our microcosm of mind, mana, mood, and mark.
These stabilize the eight inner sephira of drift flux surge & drive fuel spark, while the buns of Ideation and Phenomenization serve to keep the inner 8 poised perdurable.
It tends to follow our personal understanding (or misunderstanding) of Rupert Sheldrake’s posit that consciousness may not exist within the skull or any section of the body proper. Instead, consciousness is more likely a non-local phenomena that we receive from a somewhat ‘proximal’ source like an unceasing data stream that contains all of our efforts, ideas, emotions, and inquiries.
Some thing as hypermaximal & ubiquitous as the undefinable ‘edges’ of our cosmos containing macro-signatures of microwave background radiation.
In all likelihood, under this model, we do not store memories in our physical brains so much as keep everything in a readily accessible ‘cloud’ of sorts that we ‘pair’ with our cerebral MAC address and ‘connect’ to our processes of reception, maintenance*, and eventual transmission.
An idea of maintenance* in less ambiguous terms: provisional management of operational employment OR operational employment of provisional management.
We prefer the latter, to be unquestionably honest with ourselves.
Too much bothering the brainstem—about bullion bricks and what baubles with which to baste the back brace in order to gain some motility: the buoyancy in these bubbles of Maya washing over us in less-than-vague skeletal utility—for one flesh mimic to relay so early in the night.
Where there’s much work to be done in both the physical and the psychophysical, we must prepare our selves for an intrepid impact unlike the Dei kNOw SARS barely escaped. A few straggler species in tact doesn’t amount to much, but if we could awaken Muladhara as a collective phylogeny, we might get a few nights rest without having to engage in Dream Warrior escapades like Nightmare on Elm St. III.
“Sleep. Those little slices of Death. How I loathe them.”
---Edgar Allen Poe
