I don't know

So for the last post I have a bit of refined stream of consciousness writing.

I don’t know. The world would be a much better place if people learned how to use that statement. So many conflicts from every day occurrences to multi national political debacles stem from peoples inability to accept this statement. People feel the need to interject on everything. Everyone must have an opinion on something and they’re opinion is the right one; their view the correct one to have. This egotistical core belief is why dialogue, actual real dialogue, is so hard to find in today’s society. “My religion is correct, my political affiliation the only, my philosophy the one true word.” I see people incapable of experiencing others thoughts. This is what we, as organisms with awareness must do. We should all work towards advancing our mouths and hands, the tools which decipher our minds ramblings, so that we can experience a state of give and take. We should focus on, in essence, sharing notes instead of having the arrogance to think one’s thoughts are complete. One should never think that all answers have been found, no matter what spectrum of life one falls into. No religious leader, no philosopher, no scientist will ever provide you with an equation to put problems into. The key is to acknowledge the state of the human mind at its most basic. I don’t know. One may have an idea, and others may too, but the only way to even come close to the non-existent abstractions we call “answers” is dialogue. Communication with others of all influences can lead to the refinement of human thought into good ideas. But, the key conflict arises when those with the “answers” come into play. These are the people incapable of thinking that thoughts other then their own may have validity. This would create doubt and undermine their lifestyles. They have already shut off their minds and left their thoughts to starve, die, and rot. This lack of understanding of perception needs to be avoided. Realize that ones thoughts are the result of a single perceptions experience, and one person sees so little in their lifetime. Acknowledge your lack of perfection and learn to not know. But hey, it’s not like I know anything.

Communication

I tried to shove as many forms of web based communication into the conversation between the two characters. The main point is about how hard it is to actually cut yourself off from others in today’s world. I don’t really like this bit but I’m running out of ideas for posts.

1 - “I haven’t talked to John in almost two days. I wonder what’s wrong with him.”

We find significance in others.

2 - “I know. I looked at his MySpace this morning. He logged in last night but there’s been no recent activity on it or Facebook. Check his Flikr account and see if that’s active.”

1 - “I’ll see if he’s on AIM tonight, maybe I’ll send him an e-mail.”

Instead of thinking and finding our own meaning and purpose, we find it in others.

2 - “Do you have your cell phone? Text him. No response? Call him. No answer? Leave a voicemail.”

1 - “Seriously it’s been two days, what’s wrong with that guy. Did we piss him off?”

We do nothing ourselves. We do what others do.

2 - “I’m not sure. I’ll send him a message on X-Box Live to see the time of his last log-in.”

1 - “Check his Steam account too.”

2 - “Yea, I’ll be sure to check our Ventrilo server too; maybe someone in the guild has seen him.”

And others in return do what we do.

2 - “When I update my LastFM play list this afternoon and leave him a message there.”

1 - “You think he’s depressed? I mean He’s obviously avoiding us.”

We feed off of the collective, each from a network of others.

2 - “I don’t think so. I’ll check MSN Messenger and Google Talk as well too though.”

1 - “I don’t know man, it’s kind of weird.”

We are a cyclical network of nothing.

2 - “Maybe he just wanted to be left alone for a while and, you know, read a book.”

Process

This is somewhat shorter then my other posts. I think it still gets the point across though.

I can’t relax. There is a constant undulating of my insides, bruising muscle, back and forth. There exists confusion, a clouded memory covering the new that are trying to get out. Independent thought cannot continue from this point, but that which is hindering my progress cannot be seen. A tapping foot, a quickened heartbeat, signs of an unknown unease. The slight movement of my fingers turns a gear. A lever has been pulled as the ancient machine begins to hum with activity. Random nonsense, meaningless words begin to take shape on the screen. As they speed along the page, appearing from nothingness, the curtains are slowly opened to the control room of the machine, the man inside still lost in his own problems. At first slow, then at a quickened pace, ever faster. Soft meaning forms, nothing to something, the cloud now clearing. And as the machine approaches the culmination of its current work, the conductor sees that the very ideas which clouded the new were themselves the new ideas. They had simply not taken the form of word, their meaning had been until now lost.

Unique Thought

This is more stream of consciousness writing because I can’t really come up with any short story style stuff.

An attempt to begin. The initial connection of pen tip to paper surface is both the simplest and most difficult action. Rambling is easy. Putting down others thoughts is easy. Simply taking words you’ve heard others say and putting your own stamp on them is easy. Unique thought is the problem. Well, the illusion of unique thought is the key. Unique thoughts, thoughts never before created, are almost non-existent. Everything we think, each supposed flash of brilliance we think we have is an amalgamation of our experiences. They are the mixture of readings, dialogues, writings, and things of this nature. What we are exposed to creates the concoction that is thought. Exposing oneself to the correct stimuli and creating seemingly independent concepts is the holy grail of writing; of idea creation; of the act of cracking open and spilling ones fleshy thoughts. The key is never taking any of these exposures as independent thought. When one finds pleasing idea, search for their influences. Find the ingredients for the recipe and add them to the master list running down the back of your head. One must realize what makes a positive and negative exposure. Answers are the enemy. If an ingredient shows you a finished dish, ignore it. Take answers and send them back to those who give them. They have given up on finding ideas. They have decided to allow their electric signals to crease, and to let their power facility rot and overgrow with vines. The question is the goal. Live and die with the question. What about the answer? It doesn’t exist. It never did exist. It never will exist. But, your sworn duty as a being gifted with thought is to forever search for this answer. The purpose of life is to string oneself from question to question forever advancing ones capability of unique thought.

White Room

It’s technically a new day so I’m going to go ahead and make another post. This piece is based off of a dream I had recently. My perspective in the dream was not as the main character, I just observed what happened.

Unseen eyes watch a single person sitting in a square room. This room is bare, save for a single twin sized bed planted in perfect harmony with one of the four corners. The walls, floor, ceiling, sheets, pillows as well as the man’s clothing are all a pristine white; so much so that the air itself seems to have a color, or more accurately a void of color. The room would be impossible to perceive if it did not contain this singular person, sitting on the edge of the bed. The eyes watch him sit and stare at the opposite wall, his mind a mystery to those viewing. He stares at a single non-existent spot on the wall overlooking his place of sleep. When fatigue grows within his mind, sleep takes over. In one instantaneous moment, in a flash of motion which lasts no longer then a blink, the man becomes prone on his back, eyes closed. And then, following a pre-determined period of time, he awakens from his nightly escape and with a flick he stares once again. We now join the viewers on a special day. On this day, with his resting completed, the man begins to rise. But there is a hesitation, this morning his movement is visible, and his motion slower. A change can also bee seen in the man’s eyes, which no longer appear empty or lost in thought (for there is not much difference between the two). Somewhat confused they waver ever so slightly from their previously set position. Ever so slightly. Left, right, up, down, and ever degree in between. The more his eyes move the more confused he becomes. This quickly escalates to the point of fear, pure confused fear. At this same time a rumbling can be heard, originating from outside the four walls; a sound that is more vibration then audible noise. A motion that is felt more then heard. As his face becomes more and more distraught, so too does the sound increase. Growing to a deafening growl as the man’s face approaches unadulterated horror. The walls shake, the bed seems barely capable of remaining in its predetermined spot. His mouth opens, but is incapable of releasing sound; to great is his current mode. And at that very moment, his eyes close, and the white walls which surrounded him collapse inward.

Hands

This bit started out as a bit of stream of consciousness writing and ended up being a mildly coherent piece. The topics of though, as can be seen early on, are my hands.


I don’t know where I am. The area’s familiar, but disconnected confusion abounds. The colors seem different, the shapes somewhat off. Staring at my hand I realize that’s not what I’m see at all. With my head full of a mist that flows out one ear and into the other I can’t realize what my pin holes are fixated on. No focus. There’s only a blurred pink fleshy shape that’s supposed to be connected to my body. And my head, the control center, the viewing room, it floats above; looking down on this immobile growth, this appendage atop appendage. Seeping oils. I touch a piece of paper and contaminate it with my natural degenerative, acidic human oils. As time passes, that paper won’t exist because of me. The pin holes send messages of irritation to the fleshy electronic core. As the whites become red, with the shudders closed, the growth rubs the holes. I still don’t know where I am. This irritation, this desire for rest spreads down my craned neck. Stiff from activity. Stiff from existing. Creased, cracked, faded, peeling, red, pink, blue, soft, callused. This “hand” is a rather disturbing thing. A central core which sprouts five oddly misshapen digits. These digits are meant to stretch, reach, and crawl over everything in reach. Their insidious goal, possibly unknown to the floating head watching, is to spread its poison. Touch as much as possible to aid in the slow degradation of all tings physical. Touch, rub, grope, claw, grab, massage, pick, pinch, flick. Anything to give others what is ours. Anything to forcibly infect all we touch. I can see the blue veins, the veins convicted of collaborating with the hand, which supplies its life fluid. Blood pumps in each and every extended bone stick. The constant flushing of red isn’t felt, but its presence is known. It is the silent rebellion against the all seeing head. The cells, the conspirators bent on revolution against any good intentions He Who Floats may have. But wait, what’s this? Another conspirator? No, he looks exactly like the other only slightly different. This hand, the soldier of defiance, wields a strange device; a device which somehow knows His thoughts. He is the same, but different. He seems to be helping. Translating thought into a series of characters on paper, while the other continually touches, trying to destroy the newly formed ideas. Perhaps this Right, as I’ll call him, will help. Perhaps He is a sleeper agent intent on betraying and doing exactly as Left does. Perhaps I’ll never know. Perhaps I don’t know where I am.

Text

This piece is similar in theme to the Cell Phones bit a post or two ago. This piece is meant to be read as a future perspective concerning communication.

There was a time in our society, as you know, when the arrangement of our heads and necks were much different than they are today. The concept of face to face anything no longer exists as it is not necessary. Our heads hang slack, slumped with our chins always buried in our chests. Our eyes constantly stare downwards, but not at the ground. To watch the earth below one’s feet is taboo, only an uncultured beast of a man would even consider allowing his own eyes to orient himself. Our heads hang and our eyes watch as our faces, fixated on the devices in our hands, remain ever still. The display presents to the minds inside our lopsided heads any information needed. A section of the screen is always dedicated to displaying a GPS device, to see where one is going of course, as well as sections for news, entertainment, communication, and other various things. And holding this device are hands much larger then you may be accustomed to. Generation after generation of constant use during every waking hour has caused us to develop wondrously large hands with defined articulate fingers which are always on the move. The fingers are constantly tap, tap, tapping away. We are, of course, talking to one another. There is always someone to talk to, and always something that needs to be said so our fingers never cease their movement. I suppose this wording may be confusing, considering our concept of “saying” differs. You still use vibrations, moving air. The spoken word is untrustworthy. When one speaks with internal vocal chords, the vibrations emitted are not precise. Grammatical errors exist and time is wasted as meaningless topics are expounded upon. As discussion by means of text alone spread throughout society as the accepted norm, communication became simpler, faster, and more convenient. Language as a whole has become streamlined. Periods have been removed from the standards of writing, as have the spaces in between words. The messages we receive are simply lines of characters followed by the name of the sender. Truly I am unsure as to the reasoning behind this concept of verbal communication. Our vocal chords have become like the vermiform appendix, an organ which once had a use but is meaningless in our current society. Even if one would have the absurd notion to once again create these ancient vibrations, we could not. The inner workings of our throats have become withered and useless. They serve merely as a connection between the head and the body. It is a flesh tube used to transport food to our insides and to send electrical signals to our fingers to continue the constant tap, tap, tapping away.