Tuesday, October 9, 2012

is consciousness a curse

There's no difference, I feel sometimes, between some mindless tiny organism—trying to do it's best to survive, to protect its life cycle in some environment it has no attachment with regardless whether it's neutral or nourishing or hostile, indifferent, dumb with no capacity to peep into the future and no desire—and me, once a native of dreamland, workaholic, ambitious, confident... now just a caricature or carcass of my past, with unconscious dreams, comatose, unable to communicate with my consciousness, with hopes though shrunk resembling constructions of a grandiose mind—stubborn, alive even when the reality is in sharp contrast.

Maybe the tiny organisms are not mindless, thinking deeply, curious, trying to solve puzzles posed by nature on their minds, loving them, trying to tend them while trying to sustain... maybe they're more complex, intelligent, understanding the meaning of life, the purpose of being alive; maybe these brainless existents are born with the knowledge of  mind; maybe they're mature, grown up beyond the concept of me and mine, looking beyond punishment and reward; maybe they're huge, spiritual beings, too big to be confined in boundaries of plasma membrane and cell walls, selfless and polite, thinking of themselves just as a 'part', or they might be infinite, endless, nothing but the universe itself... maybe they're not conscious as we are, their consciousness being the existence itself, their world being 'real', not polluted by senses and feelings—just some 'impression' of the world as in our sensitive, deceptive and fool  minds.

Our world is different, subjective, limited, selfish, it's not even real—getting transformed into something different with even a slight change in perspective attitude attention or information, making us vulnerable, confined, lost in consciousness... it's worse than other animals with simpler joys and straight forward punishments; our joys are complex, punishments are strange, we lose even after winning, sacrifices can make us happy; weak, we can get lost completely—searching happiness while sacrificing our aliveness, planning, cheating, suffocating ourselves in polluted worlds created by our polluted minds; imprisoned in boundaries created by wrong thoughts, scared, insecure, suspicious, we can act as a big disease to ourselves...

Is consciousness a curse, a drawback, neurons being some powerful parasites ruling us making us mad—getting lost in illusory fake worlds existing only in our minds, giving us a false sense of being intelligent independent farsighted, enslaving us, making us to do what they want, while confusing us, deceiving, hiding information from us, masking the reality...

Whatever they do, neurons make us 'conscious'; we've no choice but to be conscious, except for some exceptional glorious moments of intense pleasure as in complete surrender during meditation or devotion in religious spiritual doings, or as in some forms of epilepsy or instances of intense human bonding what we call orgasms, there's always a boundary separating us from rest of the universe, it's hard to feel blended or a 'part'... it's hard to imagine an identity without being conscious, or a different identity— huge eternal encompassing everything; we're not that huge, our brains tell us most of the times—the times when we're 'sane'.

But they're not that dishonest, giving us a chance at least to suspect to wonder or to imagine that there's a world beyond our consciousness that's real, same to every eye; maybe we'll never evolve to have that objective perspective, to peep into reality to that extent... we've science, we've statistics—very strict measures to overcome our subjectivity; we bend the rules, overlook statistics, our world still being affected by slightest changes. We're not machines, not intelligent beings thinking in terms of statistics and math, even statistic experts being non statistic thinkers, we humans  are just unable to stop being affected by stimuli either relevant or irrelevant.

Maybe neurons make us powerful, the creators—authors, poets, artists, mechanics of our own worlds, the power in fact being just a perception, the world in fact being a mirror image of external world, the image depending upon the angle size shape texture and cleanness of the mirror, changing with any change in the mirror, the mirror being unstable—modifying itself, getting adapted to the perceived mirror images, changing its capacity to reflect, in addition to searching its own place in the reflection; maybe our brains are mirror houses, the mirrors changing themselves constantly, making us dazzled, puzzled, short sighted in order to keep us from getting mad, it being disturbing to know that the reality may not be 'real'...

I give up there, feeling too naive, too small, like a mindless tiny organism—trying its best to survive, to protect its life cycle in... , hoping that one day my human race will come up with the knowledge of mind, will break the bonds of me and mine, will be selfless, everyone feeling sense of being a 'part', of being responsible; feeling unrealistic as unable to think of any plan any way to reach that situation, my consciousness starts suspecting my mental status, and I—dreaming to be a realistic dreamer—shift my focus to present and near future, to my own personal subjective world without suspecting whether it's real.

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