My dead horse

If meaning comes from understanding the world, then what do we create meaning with? With words. With definitions. With stories. Stories about boundaries between ‘things’. But those boundaries depend on made-up values. We just choose some number, or a criterion to bound our ‘things’. Yellow is a radio wave between this value and that. A radio wave is bla. Bla is more bla. Stories. Stories all the way down. Until we come to me and other. The first story. I am this and that is that. My thoughts are mine but what falls on my retina happens without my involvement. What I say I am responsible for. What I was taught not. What I do, I do. What happens to me is external. But all that shit just appears. Show me the process with which you exercise your free will. Nothing is separate from anything else but through stories. You are the first story in the series. There is consciousness and that which appears in consciousness. But what any of it is? A story. Just imagine some other story than aap, noot mies. Easy as pie. How many could you make up? Infinitely many. Any of them more true? Why? Now understand that everyone, actually has a different story of stories. Not subtly different. 100% different. Where? In the details. But there are many, many details to be had. In fact, it is all details. And their reality is just as real to them as yours is to you. 100% real and 100% bullshit. Just zoom in more. How far can we zoom into a topic? Can we ever not ask any more questions?

It’s stories all the way down.

Different for everyone.

This came out pretty raw and at once. I think it makes sense.

1 comment

  1. The first half of the first sentence is garbage. But that’s what I wrote. So, sorry I guess. The rest is ok.

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