the crux of consciousness

dear friends,

this letter I will attempt to delve into consciousness.

tunnel vision. very narrow, tunnel vision. I can't help it. My conscious attention is being spent all on this van. Van, van, van. It's all this man can think about.

Apologies for the lateness. This 27th letter is an oddball. I have this strange fixation on the number 27, the 27 club, and Goldbach's Conjecture where n = 27.

Everything else has gone to the wayside. On this 28th week of writing. I feel spent, exhausted, and guilty. None of it, I tell you, is certain. Any information or stimulus I receive is jaded because I have been so entranced on this van. I am aware of my one track mind, yearning for the road to unfold.

How can I discuss consciousness if all I am focused on is this damn van?

The passions dull as the pressures heighten within this tight tunnel. This fire engulfed deep in this tunnel wants out. The pressure is building, waiting, anxiously waiting to be released. Are you going to let them wait?

You repress, holding it down. You are doubtful this fire will pan out to anything, a flash in the pan. What is the cost of all this? You worry, worried of the sacrifice.

Too many chips on the table. Too many options. Too many, too many, too many things. I repeat myself because it bares repeating. Too many chips. Chaos. This style of yours is remnant of pure chaotic pathways looping itself in. The rapid stream of consciousness, so disorderly with no regard to the ego, to the conscious perspective. It lows, regardless of how you feel, of what you observe, of what you take account of.

Consciousness, that slippery snake, bites down so venomnously and vehemently. Yet, you are mistaken. This ultimate observer, this "consciousness" is indifferent as the Universe is. The Universe does not care for your feelings. It just is. The Universe simply is. These thoughts, how could they hold the weight of the Universe?

You space out, the stacks pile on. These obligations you put on yourself. These expectations, these norms, these figments of your imagination, these illusions of consciousness. What is it all for?

Wrap your head around it, I dare you. A curse I place on you, your prideful prize you lament on. Consciousness is yours, take it. Take the apple from the tree, see what happens. The branches of knowledge is yours for the taking. Take it, the snake eats itself in the end. The end of the beginning, consciousness is.
The collapse of waveforms, the crossroads between you and the universe, the place of voids and imagined worlds. The wind winds down on this windy path.

https://www.instagram.com/p/C7VjTlCMdC5/?igsh=M3hodW1qNnZnYXo0

Call It Fate, Call It Karma.

333am 334am

I watch TikTok with kid in it.

so simple. and it has been said to me so many times. it’s a great reminder on a philosophy of life that I have either forgoten or simply chose to forget.

because it’s so frustrating. it’s a hard truth to accept. I’ve been so angry that it has blinded me. it’s hard for me to feel compassionate towards the world when I feel that I am not in control. that I am not in control of what happens to me. yet, I am to blame for my anger.

we would like to make the excuse that it’s the wind’s fault. shift it onto something that is not within our control. I do it all the time. many of us do.

we blame fate. we blame it for the direction we go. we blame it. [and that’s lame]

can we escape it? we can’t change the wind. but we can change our sails. is that free will? perhaps. perhaps not.

from what I can say genuinely, our sails our within our control. I cannot say for certain that is pure free will because I am not so sure such exists. [perhaps there is nothing in this world that is purely perfect or perfectly pure (ie. Togetherness, Goodness, Badness, all the Plato-ness sh#t)]

but what I can say is that this kid resonated something within me that has given me hope that there are things within my control. to make a better choice.

I cannot promise I will always make the best choice(s). what I can promise is that I will continue to have hope and move in a way that betters the world, better others, and to prove that crazy dreams are possible.

regardless of the debate. it’s within my fate. to create. what I ide(ate).

356am

401am

“You were born to gather the stars” “Mother…” the Boy responded, “How must I gather the stars when you are now so far from me?”

The Boy reached out towards the depth of space. A twinkle in his eyes.

…

410am

A Simple Tale of Boy The Simple Tale of Boy.

Father was empty. Still, he was strong.

Boy didn’t understand. He was still young.

All Boy could do was lay awake, staring at the stars.

A Restless Lullaby.

Humor me. The crux of consciousness. Not everyone cares. Some days, I wish I didn't care.

i) The spiral of awareness is a painful journey [qualia]

Haunt me. The crux of consciousness. It disturbs me when I sleep and I am distraught that not everyone cares. One day, I wish they would care. Inference indifference.

ii) The unexamined life is not worth living [perspective]

Consciousness, to me, is more about listening and less of the thoughts we claim to generate. The big and bad artificial intelligence can generate thousands upon thousands of ideas, but can it truly listen?

Are you listening?

Forgive me. The crux of consciousness. I cannot see you. How often do you see me?

iii) The rapid stream of consciousness is one vast unified field [unity]

I speak to the mirror, to my own thoughts. Do I listen? It all reflects back, this chamber of the soul, this crux of consciousness.

Mere projections within the ripples of reflection. I jest at myself. This is all too much not to be enjoyed. The babbling, fishing, little badonadonks.

BONK!

Hit me. The crux of consciousness. I can feel you. The signals you give me lay within my dreams and delusions beyond, this ego of mine. Mental representations and abstracts.

iv) The world of synchronicities and the unconscious [intentionality]

I dream of that fish that flew, that idiotic little fish bonked me down deep into my own soul. He flew to the Sun, that stupid fish. A fool, he was, Icarus of the Sea.

I stare out in to the Icarian Sea, the Sun setting on the horizon. That stupid fish was me! He swam into my stream of consciousness, picked away by that ancient man, Saint Peter, the fishing man at the gates of Heaven.

You see, the Sea here becomes a liminal space between Heaven and Earth, failure and transcendence. Ambition and Doubt, it all plays a role. Your Faith bleeds into the crux of it all.

Am I Icarus or Saint Peter?

Faith blinded by Hubris or Hubris blinded by Faith?

"Think Poetic" the voice told me. What a joke, I jested at myself! This crux of conscioiusness.

[read back the four cruxes of consciousness]

i) Qualia (raw feel of experience)

ii) Perspective (subjectivity)

iii) Unity (one binding stream of experience)

iv) Intentionality (aboutness of thought)

These four pillars is what makes consciousness so slippery and nonsensical. We experience consciousness, the foundation of all meaning, through qualia (sense perceptions) from a first person perspective in one binding stream that points to a world beyond itself (Plato's World?). It's all intertwined and interconnected.

I cry reading back my own stream of consciousness. I bounced back to May 23rd, 2024. The pain resurges, I cannot contain these emotions. I write while my vision blurs. I can't help it. I am relieved. It reminds me I can still feel, these conscious thoughts, have not dissipated to the void. I can still feel the pain in my words, it lingers. The stars in my eyes began to spin once more centripetally.

I am still that kid, that little cry baby, staring out into this cruel world, crucifying his dreams for the sake of his soul.

For the life of me, I wish I could fully express this state of consciousness to you, the current observer of my thoughts. Consciousness is a humorous endeavor. With something that is so powerful, it can makes me feel so crippled inside. I am a liar who genuinely attempts to spout the truth. I am lying to myself, deluding myself in believing I understand consciousness. All these fancy proofs and funky dance maneuvers.

Consciousness, to me, is a comedy. A tragic comedy that attempts to laugh at itself in intoxicating self-deprecating humor Consciousness is a trick; it's not what it seems to be to me. A metacrisis is one cruel joke, I tell you.

I can feel myself losing myself. Why do I continue to write of this cruel joke we call "consciousness" if it has such a capacity to vehemently hurricane my entire essence, my entire existence?

I have nothing to say yet I continue to write. To rebel in this severance between mind and matter. I am a disillusionist who remains hopeful. I have got nothing-

You liar.

What came first, the chicken or the egg?

It's a dumb question, sort of like Humpty Dumpty sitting on the wall, pondering on his whole essence and existence questioning what came first, the end or the beginning?

You loop around arguing with the wrong tools in your hand. The chicken came first because the egg is born from the chicken. But the chicken was born from the egg. The new egg gives meaning to the chicken, a reason to live, for the cycle to repeat. Egg, chicken, chicken, egg, egg chicken.

Play the Game, consciousness laughs in your face.

Look to the symbols in your funny little brain Jake. Why do you resonate with these two figures playing out in your head to no end?

Myth, martyrdom, and metaphysics.

You are Icarus flying too close to the Sun, hurling down towards the ocean, towards the depth of yourself. The Sun and Ocean here represents two sides of your consciousness. Failure and transcendence. Ambition and doubt. High on hubris and faith in yourself. You flail when you try it all, when you overreach.

To be fearless or fearful. This delicate act is of essence when you mess with your own inner depth. Learn from these stories, Jake. What meets you at the bottom of these two stories? What is left of your consciousness then?

These two tales crack onto each other. One breaks the loop and one completes it. These two mismatched stories represent the crux you struggle most with. You are riddled with doubt on one side of the coin, then with one flick of the thumb, the coin spins in the air. Blind confidence with no regard to reality.

This is your crux of consciousness. To define something indefinable. To match unlike things. These stories do not relate at all, but to you, they intersect on this very crux you pride on. You pry at consciousness. This could all go aflame to nothingness.

Recover from this Fall from Grace. Recover, continue to swim, to being that flying fish that bonked you on the head. A fish that yearns to swim is quite the fool. Continue to be that Boy who grasped to the Stars. Continue to be the Boy who lived. You mustn't get caught in the weeds, within the 27 club. Disillusioned you may be, but remain hopeful. Remain. You must remain in this conscious world.

Strive to understand but know that you may never understand, this crux of consciousness.