Thursday, August 17, 2017

Comments by ucompsyche

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  • To recover is wonderful. To fail sad.
    I listened to a philosophy talk on PBS radio discussing who “I” was. Was I my consciousness, my memories, my mind, my brain.
    What if my consciousness was unconscious, my memories false, my mind unreliable, by brain in some state of failure. Then, who was I? Who was listening to the radio, trying to make sense of what was being said, trying to apply what was heard to my experience, my life, my sense of self; and who were all these others around me?
    I have seen the Hubble deep field records. I know there is more life, more variations on life (and death) then dreamt of in all philosophy. I know we die ourselves to sleep every evening if we are lucky, and reassemble what we think we are all mornings when we wake. I am amazed when what we think we are is recognized by compatriots and comrades and left called reality by all the others that we meet those same mornings, still recognizable and agreed on afternoons, and surrendered every other evening of the world. I think we are the same from day to day enough to pass for sane in our agreed upon reality.
    Yet something tells me there is something new I never knew before about this morning, some surprise in store.
    I hope I am still going to be around each next day, and I try to never think about how vaporous and evanescent all this life stuff, content and container, all I call myself will be.
    Conscious or unconscious, I stayed real enough to see these words spelled out electronically reaching through new media to eyes and ears I’ll never know, who’ll think they know me by them.