Light is an illusion; only darkness is eternal and forever real

If inquiry is the driver of all consciousness, its vessel is the heart. Meaning is the perpetual force behind the vessel, and qualia before the vessel in perception is the flame to the creatures of revelation that we are. All moths deserve to one day die and burn aflame. Without the moth, what would be light? Without the light, moths would never die.

We’re constantly thinking, or trying to find out, what are the most people thinking––whenever thoughts bring us to a place of humanistic uncertainty. The balance between love and domination is a necessary dance in shoes of prosperity: your idea. It’s one of those things you want to believe, but you know it will cause people to revulse you. A red alert goes off in the unconscious; it’s powerful enough it flashes by your conscious mind in a foreign language like a shooting star. Your iceberg watchman doesn’t understand the red glow on the horizon; it’s a funny little feeling that speaks in the gut as quick as a laugh; just a glimmer of insight that surfaces to your mind for you to catch with your inner eyes before it submerges again like a diving whale; your iceberg watchman blinks in its absence; he chalks it up to anything but guilt; the potential threat is never realized; he is an idiot; your social existence is at stake. Meanwhile, closer to your mind in the captain’s seat, the dream machine continues its delusion.

Definitions of the human being seem to keep us in line, but definitions of the human being equate to insight into the ever expanding living design––a pool of unknowable depth that we slave to chart regardless in a race of hare versus tortoise. Definitions of the human being are things we don’t parrot; it’s a family of parrots, and an undying patriarch continues to hold a power role; his feathers are white as snow, but he’s not better than other parrots is becoming the most popular idea on the tree, and acceptance of this idea is going to dominate mainstream conscious rivers one day seems like what it is; he knows this. He, like all the parrots, is constantly adapting to the demands of the commons. 60 years ago he remembers being the only color of parrot who could go to the canopies, and he thought it mattered, but now every color of parrot has been to the canopies and it feels less special. And every parrot seems to outperform him in some way. This matters to him. But he still can’t get over the mystery that rules him. How did white parrots almost take over the tree? It pisses him off when white parrots betray this pit of focus. He doesn’t know what to tell them and all he hears is rhetoric––lower parrot talk––parrots who are are gonna run this tree into the ground.

When we stumble upon places of humanistic uncertainty, convictions prevail, but an inner critic exposes, or a paper devil’s advocate emerges––this is only to prove its voice wrong. For example, a white man who opposes affirmative action because he believes it isn’t fair, might ask himself does this common conviction among white skinned minds make him racist. What is the most common conviction? That is the unconscious question that drives the brain into computations when the question is a sand castle and the process of the answer exhausts a Russian roulette barrel that gets passed around society; the roulette barrel exposes a lethal pathology in time; basically, after a cleansing in high tide, society will find its most egregious offender and make it man’s new stone fish. Hitler is a recent example of a stone fish. He tried to wash away the Jewish sand castle. Hence why Nazis, while once in vogue, are now equatable to evil. Stone fish they are all; society will not lift them––they cannot swim. We tend to think that seawater is the only way, but we seem to regret our wishes every time it claims the beach. What is the black experience––he’ll begin to wonder. Interesting question. White, people, in general, are not so much stone fishes, though perhaps they should be. Ideas of Will Smith will come to his mind, and he’ll hate himself for his ignorance, because he knows he can’t scratch the surface, but this won’t change his mind. He’ll think of his personal consensus. The red, white and Trump. And the red, white and Trump will absorb his presence without complaining. Trump will be the shepherd of any human who sees his vision. Somehow Kanye West still will vote for him if the planets shall remain aligned in time for 2020. He makes up his mind and goes on with his day.

The instinct which forces this driver into expansion––what propagates the pursuit and capture of the most popular thoughts every time––is the unconscious equation we all make between popularity and righteousness. Even conscious desire to fabricate aversion to popular thought is difficult when instincts drive humans towards so many common ends. The human being is the same one person billions of times duplicated; originality is an illusion; the brain is categorically invariant across the species; Einstein might as well have had down syndrome; super humans do not exist; it is all the human condition, and the subjective experience; rogue ideas are never masterlit unless they are revolutionary. Only then does the iceberg watcher take notice.

It is impossible for brains to calculate human sentiments and arrange them in descending order of popularity––minds are merely driven beyond their wills to try to do so––but what most people are thinking of course exists, and that is probably why minds try to figure out what it is; though sociologists, psychologists and statisticians might attempt to ascertain humanisms there’s just no way to know however what people are thinking, beyond analyzing records of the past, stored either in brain memory or in permanent media––historical files in both formats do exist to tell us, are we right about what we thought; the past is like a frozen stream of action preserved in parts––mostly imperfect simulations of the real thing that seem to change with time––but the past is useful in finding out what we are in the present; action is the physical manifestation of thought––and the past is nothing but, though only in past tense.

Pudding proof is the only real factor in the algorithm that turns out popular thoughts; without pudding proof, it’s all instinctive reduction. Indeed in short it must be true as we think to determine popular thoughts without pudding proof, we fall back on instincts. Crusades for holy grails turn back home, due to rain. In this way we don’t progress as fast as we could––seems plausible. Utopianology seems like a healthy exercise. Inventing logic for the heart seems liberating and lucrative. You might just stumble upon a revolution if you become a powerlifter in utopianology. You could rethink economies, perfect governments, invent a humanistic religion––many things, me thinks, if we all could do it more often some how. In any case, the fact that we all constantly fall short of our potential makes popular thoughts seem overrated. Suddenly the wisdom of the crowd seems primal in every instance––humanism way overdone––food for cavemen––cause for anarchy. Who cares if they hate what they ain’t; they don’t know what they think yet.



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