I’ve got to learn to write something that won’t be so controversial should I actually publish it.
Tonight I know exactly what I’m going to do. Well I’m writing right now but soon I’ll be cleaning.
I’ve got to do dishes, wipe down counters, sweep, vacuum and fold laundry. Oh and pickup bedroom.
But until I start on that shit, here I sit at the computer putting words into it.
Feeding it information that will likely never be read again. If it is it will likely just be re-read by myself.
But here I sit anyway.
I’ve been thinking about consciousness. Would everything, “out there,” exist if there were nothing to observe it?
I don’t know that I’m as certain of that answer as I used to be. I used to be certain that an, “out there,” existed and would whether or not it was observed.
Now I’m thinking that so long as there is something to observe, it is being observed. “Out there,” is observing its self. The universe observing itself.
Out there has a self. It has consciousness. I wonder what the world looks like to it.
I bet it looks while we’re dreaming. It looks while we’re creating. It is there when we’re feeling. It is there when we’re doing anything that matters.
Oh my fuck I hope the universe is has more mental stability and empathy than us fucking humans.
I pray it does. I should make sure the universe gets a healthy dose of logic and reason every day. And empathy and philosophy and love.
But instead of that right now I’m importing violence and blood and gore and hate and anger and stress directly into my mind.
No wonder the universe stopped talking to me for so long.