يعتقد المرء أن توأم الروح هو الشخص الأنسب له ، وهذا مايريده الجميع . ولكن توأم الروح الحقيقي ليس سوى مرآه ، إنه الشخص الذي يريك كل مايعيقك ، الشخص الذي يلفت انتباهك إلى نفسك لكي تغيري حياتك ، توأم الروح الحقيقي هو أهم شخص تلتقين به على الأرجح ، لانه يمزق جدرانك ويهزك بقوه لكي تستفيقي
عادَ النبيُّ صلى الله عليه وسلم أعربيًا مريضًا يتلوَّى من شِدّة الحُمَّى ، فقال له مواسيًا و مشجَّعًا : " طَهُورٌ " ، فقال الأعرابيُّ : بل حمّى تفور ، على شيخ كبير ، لتورده القبور . فقال : "فَنَعَمْ إِذاً " .يعني أنَّ الأمرَ يخضع للاعتبار الشخصي ، فإن شئتَ جعلتها تطهيرًا ورضيتَ ، و إن شئتَ جعلتها هلاكًا وسخطتَ .
I thought how lovely and how strange a river is. A river is a river, always there, and yet the water flowing through it is never the same water and is never still. It’s always changing and is always on the move. And over time the river itself changes too. It widens and deepens as it rubs and scours, gnaws and kneads, eats and bores its way through the land. Even the greatest rivers- the Nile and the Ganges, the Yangtze and he Mississippi, the Amazon and the great grey-green greasy Limpopo all set about with fever trees-must have been no more than trickles and flickering streams before they grew into mighty rivers.Are people like that? I wondered. Am I like that? Always me, like the river itself, always flowing but always different, like the water flowing in the river, sometimes walking steadily along andante, sometimes surging over rapids furioso, sometimes meandering wit hardly any visible movement tranquilo, lento, ppp pianissimo, sometimes gurgling giacoso with pleasure, sometimes sparkling brillante in the sun, sometimes lacrimoso, sometimes appassionato, sometimes misterioso, sometimes pesante, sometimes legato, sometimes staccato, sometimes sospirando, sometimes vivace, and always, I hope, amoroso.Do I change like a river, widening and deepening, eddying back on myself sometimes, bursting my banks sometimes when there’s too much water, too much life in me, and sometimes dried up from lack of rain? Will the I that is me grow and widen and deepen? Or will I stagnate and become an arid riverbed? Will I allow people to dam me up and confine me to wall so that I flow only where they want? Will I allow them to turn me into a canal to use for they own purposes? Or will I make sure I flow freely, coursing my way through the land and ploughing a valley of my own?
Following feeling, relying on liking or wanting, we are not free. The freedom to "do as we like" is not freedom of choice because we are ruled by the powerful property of feeling; we cannot choose apart from liking and disliking. Likes and dislikes may be articulated in the form of sophisticated-sounding opinions, but the decision is made for us by feeling. The Western world places a high value on personal feelings and opinions: Each individual "has a right" to an opinion. But rarely do we question how we have arrived at our opinion. Upon examination, we may discover that opinions tend to stem from convenience, familiarity, and selfishness–what feels good or what is pleasing or comfortable to us. Upon this basis, we act, and receive the consequences of our action. Even if we compile a large number of such opinions, there is no guarantee that we will develop a wise perspective as a ground for action. Often this process only creates a mass of confusion, for opinions of one individual tend to conflict with the opinions of another. If there appears to be agreement, we tend to assume this agreement will remain stable. But agreement only means that the needs of the individuals involved are temporarily similar, and when those needs shift, agreement will evaporate. To make certain decisions, we rely on logic or scientific findings, which are supposedly free from personal opinion but are still weighted with the opinions of a particular culture. This style of knowing is founded on particular distinctions and ignores other possibilities. The evidence is clear that the scope of modern scientific knowledge is limited, for this knowledge is not yet able to predict and control the side-effects resulting from its own use. Its solutions in turn create more problems, reinforcing the circular patterns of samsara. Only understanding that penetrates to the root causes of problems can break this circularity. Until we explore the depths of consciousness, we cannot resolve the fundamental questions that face human beings.
Centuries of navel-gazing. Millennia of masturbation. Plato to Descartes to Dawkins to Rhanda. Souls and zombie agents and qualia. Kolmogorov complexity. Consciousness as Divine Spark. Consciousness as electromagnetic field. Consciousness as functional cluster.I explored it all.Wegner thought it was an executive summary. Penrose heard it in the singing of caged electrons. Nirretranders said it was a fraud; Kazim called it leakage from a parallel universe. Metzinger wouldn't even admit it existed. The AIs claimed to have worked it out, then announced they couldn't explain it to us. Gödel was right after all: no system can fully understand itself.Not even the synthesists had been able to rotate it down. The load-bearing beams just couldn't take the strain.All of them, I began to realize, had missed the point. All those theories, all those drugdreams and experiments and models trying to prove what consciousness was: none to explain what it was good for. None needed: obviously, consciousness makes us what we are. It lets us see the beauty and the ugliness. It elevates us into the exalted realm of the spiritual. Oh, a few outsiders—Dawkins, Keogh, the occasional writer of hackwork fiction who barely achieved obscurity—wondered briefly at the why of it: why not soft computers, and no more? Why should nonsentient systems be inherently inferior? But they never really raised their voices above the crowd. The value of what we are was too trivially self-evident to ever call into serious question.Yet the questions persisted, in the minds of the laureates, in the angst of every horny fifteen-year-old on the planet. Am I nothing but sparking chemistry? Am I a magnet in the ether? I am more than my eyes, my ears, my tongue; I am the little thing behind those things, the thing looking out from inside. But who looks out from its eyes? What does it reduce to? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?What a stupid fucking question. I could have answered it in a second, if Sarasti hadn't forced me to understand it first.
As psychologist Bruce Hood writes in his book The Self Illusion, you have an origin story and a sense that you’ve traveled from youth to now along a linear path, with ups and downs that ultimately made you who you are today. Babies don’t have that. That sense is built around events that you can recall and place in time. Babies and small children have what Hood calls “unconscious knowledge,” which is to say they simply recognize patterns and make associations with stimuli. Without episodic memories, there is no narrative; and without any narrative, there is no self. Somewhere between ages two and three, according to Hood, that sense of self begins to come online, and that awakening corresponds with the ability to tell a story about yourself based on memories. He points to a study by Alison Gopnik and Janet Astington in 1988 in which researchers presented to three-year-olds a box of candy, but the children were then surprised to find pencils inside instead of sweets. When they asked each child what the next kid would think was in the box when he or she went through the same experiment, the answer was usually pencils. The children didn’t yet know that other people have minds, so they assumed everyone knew what they knew. Once you gain the ability to assume others have their own thoughts, the concept of other minds is so powerful that you project it into everything: plants, glitchy computers, boats with names, anything that makes more sense to you when you can assume, even jokingly, it has a sort of self. That sense of agency is so powerful that people throughout time have assumed a consciousness at the helm of the sun, the moon, the winds, and the seas. Out of that sense of self and other selves come the narratives that have kept whole societies together. The great mythologies of the ancients and moderns are stories made up to make sense of things on a grand scale. So strong is the narrative bias that people live and die for such stories and devote whole lives to them (as well as take lives for them).
I see things in windows and I say to myself that I want them. I want them because I want to belong. I want to be liked by more people, I want to be held in higher regard than others. I want to feel valued, so I say to myself to watch certain shows. I watch certain shows on the television so I can participate in dialogues and conversations and debates with people who want the same things I want. I want to dress a certain way so certain groups of people are forced to be attracted to me. I want to do my hair a certain way with certain styling products and particular combs and methods so that I can fit in with the In-Crowd. I want to spend hours upon hours at the gym, stuffing my body with what scientists are calling 'superfoods', so that I can be loved and envied by everyone around me. I want to become an icon on someone's mantle. I want to work meaningless jobs so that I can fill my wallet and parentally-advised bank accounts with monetary potential. I want to believe what's on the news so that I can feel normal along with the rest of forever. I want to listen to the Top Ten on Q102, and roll my windows down so others can hear it and see that I am listening to it, and enjoying it. I want to go to church every Sunday, and pray every other day. I want to believe that what I do is for the promise of a peaceful afterlife. I want rewards for my 'good' deeds. I want acknowledgment and praise. And I want people to know that I put out that fire. I want people to know that I support the war effort. I want people to know that I volunteer to save lives. I want to be seen and heard and pointed at with love. I want to read my name in the history books during a future full of clones exactly like me. The mirror, I've noticed, is almost always positioned above the sink. Though the sink offers more depth than a mirror, and mirror is only able to reflect, the sink is held in lower regard. Lower still is the toilet, and thought it offers even more depth than the sink, we piss and shit in it. I want these kind of architectural details to be paralleled in my every day life. I want to care more about my reflection, and less about my cleanliness. I want to be seen as someone who lives externally, and never internally, unless I am able to lock the door behind me. I want these things, because if I didn't, I would be dead in the mirrors of those around me. I would be nothing. I would be an example. Sunken, and easily washed away.
Everybody tries to protect this vulnerable two three four five six seven eight year old inside, and to acquire skills and aptitudes for dealing with the situations that threaten to overwhelm it... Usually, that child is a wretchedly isolated undeveloped little being. It’s been protected by the efficient armour, it’s never participated in life, it’s never been exposed to living and to managing the person’s affairs, it’s never been given responsibility for taking the brunt. And it’s never properly lived. That’s how it is in almost everybody. And that little creature is sitting there, behind the armour, peering through the slits. And in its own self, it is still unprotected, incapable, inexperienced...And in fact, that child is the only real thing in them. It’s their humanity, their real individuality, the one that can’t understand why it was born and that knows it will have to die, in no matter how crowded a place, quite on its own. That’s the carrier of all the living qualities. It’s the centre of all the possible magic and revelation. What doesn’t come out of that creature isn’t worth having, or it’s worth having only as a tool—for that creature to use and turn to account and make meaningful...And so, wherever life takes it by surprise, and suddenly the artificial self of adaptations proves inadequate, and fails to ward off the invasion of raw experience, that inner self is thrown into the front line—unprepared, with all its childhood terrors round its ears.And yet that’s the moment it wants. That’s where it comes alive—even if only to be overwhelmed and bewildered and hurt. And that’s where it calls up its own resources—not artificial aids, picked up outside, but real inner resources, real biological ability to cope, and to turn to account, and to enjoy.That’s the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they’re suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful armour, and the naked child is flung out onto the world. That’s why the things that are worst to undergo are best to remember.But when that child gets buried away under their adaptive and protective shells—he becomes one of the walking dead, a monster. So when you realise you’ve gone a few weeks and haven’t felt that awful struggle of your childish self—struggling to lift itself out of its inadequacy and incompetence—you’ll know you’ve gone some weeks without meeting new challenge, and without growing, and that you’ve gone some weeks towards losing touch with yourself.
ഞാൻ :എന്നെക്കൂടാതെതന്നെ ഈ പ്രപഞ്ചം നിലനിൽക്കുമെന്നെനിക്കറിയാം. പക്ഷെ ഞാനില്ലെങ്കിൽ എനിക്ക് ഈ ലോകമില്ല, ഒന്നുമില്ല.ഞാനില്ലെങ്കിൽ നിങ്ങളുമില്ല . ഇല്ലാത്ത എന്നെ വ്യക്തിവാദി എന്ന് അധിക്ഷേപിക്കുകയുമില്ലല്ലോ ?ഞാൻ ജനിക്കുന്നതിനു വളരെ മുമ്പു തന്നെ ഈ പ്രപഞ്ചം ഉണ്ടായിരുന്നു. ഞാൻ മരിച്ചുകഴിഞ്ഞും അതുണ്ടായിരിക്കും. പക്ഷെ എന്നെ സംബന്ധിച്ചിടത്തോളം എന്റെ അസ്തിത്വമാണു ആദ്യത്തെ പടി .പ്രപഞ്ചത്തിന്റെ അസ്തിത്വത്തെ ഞാൻ അംഗീകരിക്കണം എങ്കിൽ ഞാൻ ഉണ്ടായിരിക്കണം .അതിനു എന്റെ സ്വന്തം അസ്തിത്വത്തെ നിഷേധിച്ചിട്ട് കഴിയുകയില്ലല്ലോ ? എന്നെ നിഷേധിച്ചാൽ പ്രപഞ്ചത്തിനു നിൽക്കാനാവില്ല .ഞാനില്ലെങ്കിലും പ്രപഞ്ചം ഉണ്ട് എന്ന് നിങ്ങളല്ലേ പറയുന്നത് . ഞാനില്ലെങ്കിൽ ആ പ്രസ്താവനയുടെ ചുവട്ടില ഞാൻ എങ്ങനെ ഒപ്പുവെയ്ക്കും? അതുകൊണ്ട് ഞാനുണ്ട് , പ്രപഞ്ചമുണ്ട്- ഞാൻ കൂടി ഉൾപ്പെട്ട പ്രപഞ്ചം. ഞാൻ പ്രപഞ്ചത്തിന്റെ ഒരു ഭാഗമാണ് .
Ки е уродливо подобие на себе си.- Кое „себе си“?Това, което вярва, че е. Това, което другите помнят. Това с изтекъл срок на годност.- Кой определя това?Не знам. Бог?Убий ме бавно, ако това е Краят. Нека усетя всяка наносекунда в трептенията на ръката Ти, нека попия всеки кубичен милиметър от потопа на Червеното ти море. Нека умра щастлив с Твоята усмивка. Без град. Без свят.Етикетът на бутилката за еднократна употреба със заместител на кърма потрепва. Ужасът.Никога междуполова любов за това същество.Никога бунт за това същество.Никога честен бяс за това същество.Никога секс за това същество.Никога лудост.Никога лудост.Никога лудост.Никога лудост.Никога лудост.Никога лудост.Никога лудост.Никога отегчение.Никога някое занимание самотно.Защото няма самота, зрялост, зло, чудовища, безумие, откровена простотия, екзистенциален бяс, злескроена действителност.Ки.Метрото замина. Светът наистина свърши тогава. Просто беше прекалено обикновено, бързо. И ти не го усети.Извинявай.
