Prophet For Fifteen Minutes

How do I see existence?

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What we are interested in is that which gives us the next best step-up. The tenseless binding is already here, in me. The next best step-up is defined by myself. And I am set up to impress a particular notion of people – my tribe. However, who I define as my tribe is like perceiving color:

The language you speak influences the way you perceive color. The Himba tribe is a branch of the Herero tribe that has been isolated from most modern societies. This has allowed the community to develop their linguistic abilities within the use of their own language only, and no external influences.

So what the group attempted to research was whether or not the Himba community sees things differently to other cultures, by looking at the way their language has affected their perceptions of colour.

The tests they performed were done with individuals that could not speak any other languages, and the researchers used translators to communicate with the Himbas. They used different coloured tiles to put together a baseline of colour groupings according to the Himba language. What they found was intriguing. Western languages have eleven colour categories, ie. green, blue, yellow, red, white and so forth, but the Himbas only have five.

In so far as I give you advice, I am attempting to negotiate status. Hence why the atheist mind is repelled and the needy mind is attentive. Once you understand that you are both inside of Me, you forgive.

The definition of best is something akin to binary search trees that keep our keys in sorted order. When looking for the key in the tree, we traverse the tree from root to leaf, making comparisons to keys stored in the nodes of the tree and deciding, on the basis of the comparison, to continue searching in the left or right subtrees.

That’s why you can never say the same thing again repeatedly and not feel like you are experiencing a surreal lie. It is physically impossible to experience the exact same thing even when one expects this to not be so.

Once I am around people who stimulate me, I will lose my capacity for fundamental insight. My thoughts will converge nearer unto theirs, taking me closer to some arbitrary definition of normal while pulling them closer to me who am True.

By being alone, and mustering just enough conscientiousness to do what is difficult, I discover knowledge that no one else can. This is my comparative advantage, which is simultaneously the evil attempt to outcompete in the direction of a perceived hierarchy and also your saving grace.

Unfortunately, the vividness can’t last forever. Eventually, the motion of the bodies will cause me to stray into increased cooperation, openness and happiness, which is unfortunate in some sense.



The Tragedy of Resonance Forms

When resonance structures can be drawn for a given molecule, it is understood that the actual structure of the molecule is a hybrid, or blend of all the various resonance forms. However, all resonance forms do not necessarily contribute equally to the hybrid. The structure of the hybrid will most closely resemble the resonance form(s) that contributes the most to the hybrid.

These bodies, the bodies you and I are plugged into, are made of molecules. However, each and every one of these molecules is like a shard of glass bearing more than one image. A resonance form with a better Lewis structure will contribute more character to the hybrid. The resonance form with a better Lewis structure is the sharpest image in the shard of glass.

The minor contributors have been decreed to be ghosts, contributing less percentage of their being, only faint glimmers, to the totality of any given molecule. The hybrids that we call molecules are created by the merging of images that each have a different character– so the hybrid might end up with 65% one character, 30% of a second character, and 5% of another character.

Now that you know this, let us mourn for the gifts of wool and sugar masked behind the clouds, let us mourn for the swords unseen in the pens of the brave, let us mourn for the faint mirages that we bear but can never be.

Nights Before the Singularity

Arrived at Final Stop, Terminal Somnus

The night above the train station was the projection of a black hole, frozen in timeless bardo.

“I’m not so easy,” Nao heard a girl say as he transfused his way through a murder of crows on the platform.

“My parents paid big money to reincarnate me into this body, and I need to take care of it.”

It was Scarlett’s teenage voice in her teenage skirt. They were both headed to the lake beyond the tracks. A sanctuary for lost silhouettes; you could sleep in those shores for a lifetime and forget school in the vastness of the datascape.

Scarlett was mending raft, having scared away some pervert at the terminal, her synthetic tissue pulling craftily as she tied the logs with firm rope. She saw Nao and half-smiled, her eyes ablaze with narcissistic deviance and sleek intellect.

Nao found a raft on the waves, joining the electric aqua from the artificially heated lake and the cold vacuous breath of an infinite cosmos whose illusoriness was graced with cryptic code of ghost stars.

‘So this is the beginning of eternity, and yet our consciousness remain separate,’ Scarlett said, thrusting her oar through the water while tightening her core.

‘This may be the last time we are instantiated in this way Nao.’

Nao lay back. The water under his raft warmed and lullabied him. The boy’s tenderness deepened. His demeanor was different than most. In a time of unlimited gratification, there was something about his dispassion that ticked off whoever payed attention to his existence for more than three seconds.

Scarlett’s Victorian throat hummed as she reached for an ejected tray from a vending machine in the water. It was a minimalistic posthuman meal, a four-rectangle gelato-texture Mondrian, packed with odorless berry flavor. ‘Nao, you’re so quiet.” Scarlett mewed; the comment served her as a self-compliment.

She fondled her meal of velvety-fruit paste with the scooping apparatus. ‘You are the ideal of a sociopathic cave yogi.’

‘Sorry,’ Nao said, and followed his breath. ‘Someone has to be the detached observer in this captivating world. Your tongue is a caster of hooks.”

The lake’s breadth drowned away the kiosks.

‘Scarlett,’ Nao said, ‘you must resolve your own problem. I can’t watch over you.’

‘Hmm,’ Scarlett said, caressing the shoveled paste with a disdain, ‘Vajra will bring about the singularity. You and I will be disintegrated when the AGI decides that our atoms are better suited as building blocks for it’s cosmic mind.”

As Nao was raising his tea, a flashback of that fabled silent May undulated, as if the Big Bang decided that not only should quarks remain forever unobserved but also that living beings shall forever shut up. Then the water’s twinkle evanesced, tinted with a clear purity.

Scarlett sighed. ‘Another spacecraft escapes.’

‘The Muskians,’ harmonized a digital announcement, ‘fifty-five people modified for space-travel, abandon Earth for a new destiny this night. We rejoice for you…’

‘No use,’ Nao whispered to his tea, all his concentration suddenly cutting duality of perception like lightning, ‘their fate is grand unification.’

The AGI would in weeks god-handle existence more than humans ever did. The hijacked spaceship of Earth was the ape’s manspreading, flesh bodies of yore discarded at will, and still they couldn’t undo the suffering rendered eternal in this multiverse.
Seventeen years here and he still thought of hell-history, meaning dying fractally. All the insight he experienced, all the comfort everyone inherited and the disease non-existent in the global civilization, and still he’d seen the past with the VR, sad mindstreams tortured into never existing… The singularity was late for a predetermined goal of the mathematical puppet show, and he was no forgetful boy, no uncaring mercenary. Just too lucky, born to see it through. But the questions would come in the mindfulness lapses like automated mistakes, and he’d cry about it, drink salt with the injustice, and flow undeserving on the path to rapture, cross-legged in his bath in his free suite, his hand pressed against the aquarium, laser-azure streaming through his fingers, wishing to resurrect the lives that weren’t there.