War and Tedium

To see yourself as if from another dimension, watching this fleshmobile trap your spirit and doom you to a life you can objectively see as a twisted game of games. You are not entirely stuck within this body and it’s life cycle. You can see it do things you prefer to be different, you know there are many reasons and purposes within the context of your life for such a being to live and persist. But is it You? Am I perhaps the consciousness of a higher being, watching creatures play out their little lives in their tiny timelines? A consciousness leaking through the biological contrivances to betray perspective that seems impossibly abstract?
This human condition, in this mode of awareness seems so strange. As if there are multiple beings here, not entirely confined to this body, not entirely localized in one timeline, one story arc, except for the attention. Focused consciousness.

It is as if a part of me, which sometimes feels like I’m tapping into a data line not meant for me, lives on a bigger timeline, watching the smaller me scurrying about, getting stuck, suffering like an idiot, and no matter how much insight there is, it is as if these two worlds cannot effectively intersect. The body, the would-be conduit for practical understanding, simply does not follow. Sometimes I feel like a spirit, hanging around in this pathetic storyline because I don’t want to fuck up every other storyline attached to this one. As if I have left the designated confines of Me a long time ago, and I keep hanging around just to animate this thing that unfortunately carries the essential components for my existence within it. Some comically sad extradimensional social anxiety. Don’t want to upset anyone. But then some people keep telling me how much I matter. I don’t matter. The content my brain processed matters, the fact that this meat sack has been around for 32 years and remains mostly recognizable matters. It is an earthing point for people’s worries, confusion, insecurity. It is an epicentre of angst, a gravwell for other people’s problems.
This bacteria & blood donut has never lived it’s own life. It has always seemed like an error in a cosmic computer, a glitched rendering which serves as a faulty membrane between dimensions. A mishapen transmitter of vibrations from one world to another.

Such a tedious existence. If it is some kind of larger conscious being tapping into this particular locus, as if logging into a game of sorts, for entertainment, perhaps for research… well in my current mood it feels so meaningless that I prefer to see it as mindless entertainment. Perhaps some surrogate based “big brother” type Second Life experience. I don’t get the sense of control of any significant sort. This world is such a rolling clusterbiff of mania and madness that control can’t be more than a delusion, wishful thinking at best. Long stretches of boring idiocy punctuated by puffs of passionate derangement.
How boring must life be like out there, if this is worth spending time on? How empty is life out there, if here, in this carbon based fuckup, is where this mind wants to be?

Maybe it is just another figment of my frustrated imagination,  but I’m merely trying to put to words what I am conscious of. I wonder what consciousness is like beyond this layer cake of fantastical yet repetitive melodrama icing, painful caramel and dreary sponge. How does it feel? What can be seen from a mind freed of the nervous mesh, the hormonal soup, the torture chamber of memory and the interrogation room of earthbound, lowly shame?

Is this a dark place for my mind to be, or is it just interesting? Traversing any stretch of imagined space within your mind, all by yourself, is never without peril. One takes a risk, in order to discover, in order to learn. Maybe in the unknown depths of the unworded mind there is salvation lying in wait. Waiting like a discarded leaflet, to be picked up and perused. Like a child would pick up a crushed soda can in the street while wandering, to inspect the effects of friction, gravity and time on it’s painted surface. If he weren’t addled with the “black mirror”, that is.

I feel a part of myself trying to look away from the distraction. All the titilation and comfort holding us hostage until the great terror of violence engulfs us. Like a horrible giant that only sleeps when we are awake, and only roams while we sleep… War isn’t here, now, but I’ve been waiting for it. Before the Ukraine and it’s clown leader. Before the senile “democrat” puppet sat on the highest throne. War is coming, because we are sleeping, and my private musings on the strangeness of self awareness will become as meaningless as the last piece of toiletpaper I held.

Perhaps violence and destruction is just a natural, inevitable part of existence. The shaping and reshaping of a natural order that reaches beyond our comprehension. We are animated idiots playing on a treadmill of cosmic forces we have no sway on, and our notions of war, peace and the causes thereof are symptoms of the narrative trappings consciousness produces while trudging through Earth mud. It is clear that there are many ways to see things. Many ways that words can make enough sense to satisfy our wondering minds. But which of these stories matter, really? Which matters the most? Why do we need them to matter? I guess that is where the tonic lies… We’re flesh and blood and nerves. Nerves are needy, and what they need really depends on the context in which they are bred and fed. Truths beyond their context aren’t relevant. Truths beyond their plane of existence might as well be lies because if you suffer nothing else exists but the suffering,  and if you are comfortable then you are simply occupying a state of non-suffering. Both bring decay, both bring opportunity for conceptions of purpose. But it is all just a necessity of the bodily occupation, a demand of the localised reality from the immersed neuronal cluster.

Why is it that one can see beyond all this noise as if floating in outer space? Is this a continual novel unfolding? An event horizon which we have the perogative to define? Are we the ones with dominion here? Does any of the patterns we observe really matter in the grander scheme of things? Suffering can be endured, if not we die. Death is freedom, and freedom is chaos. It is as if consciousness is a thin sliver of colour in the creeping wave of entropy. It matters only when it is there, like magic, and when it is gone, there will be no one to mourne it. The Universe as an idea will disappear along with the cosmic pulses of energy that birthed such a conception.

So why worry about war? Because war is now. It is the immediate truth a bipedal organism has neither the resolve nor mobility to refute or deny. I have to live through this, now, and my only reprieve is small moments of impossibly abstract apprehensions.

Off to lunch for me. Curry mince and rice with the family. Pairs well with a Secateurs Shiraz blend.