It’s A Contention, I Contend

I had a dream just before waking, which was about 30 minutes before I sat down to write this, in which I was trying to figure out why someone had blocked me on Twitter.

Except, the “me” that was trying to figure it out was the dreamer, but the “me” that was observing was lucid; my cognition split into the thinker and the observer. The left and the right hemispheres were operating independently.

This provided some very interesting insights.

You see, the Twitter block had been in response to something I was proud of – I don’t remember what, my lucidity didn’t stretch back far enough, though I suspect that it was merely a sense of self-value without a concrete anchor to a specific foundation – and there were several supportive “entities” besides the hater.

The hater showed up last, and essentially said, “Oh yeah!? Well, let me show you how much you suck by announcing that I’ve blocked you from my mind.”

There’s a key for you in that last observation, but I’ll let you figure it out.

Anyway, my thinking mind began to spin at this point, and it was trying to factor out the reasons for why this person would have blocked me.

  • Why did this person block me?
  • Fuck him, he’s probably wrong!
  • Am I sure it’s a man?
  • Let’s see if I can clearly read his user name…(I could not)
  • Let’s see if I can clearly read the text on the screenshot…(I could)
  • Did I do something wrong?

As my thinking mind was spinning its gears trying to create a reality into which the Twitter block made rational sense, my observing mind was watching the whole thing play out as though sitting in a dark room with the thinking reality playing out on a holographic screen.

The observer watched with great mirth. It understood that the thinking mind was dreaming, and that there was no reason for the Twitter block – the twitter block didn’t even exist – and that the thinking mind was just doing what it did, which was spinning out questions and answers in attempt to make sense of the data it was presented with.

The observer also understood that both the Twitter block and any answer that the thinking mind landed on to answer the questions were an internal obstacle which was meant to keep the thinking mind busy while it, the observer, explored other realms into which the thinking mind could not go.

The observer was filled with more mirth when it became conscious that the obstacle the thinking mind had been presented with was a manifestation of its, the observer’s, creative will.

The observer understood that it would need to fly free, and so created an problem with no answer for the thinking mind to keep it busy while it did.

The thinking mind had no idea that the observer was observing, and it did not care, it had a goal in front of it and was determined to solve it. And since, in the weird world of dreams, it had no concept of time or other constraints, it was perfectly placated with factoring and questioning and contending with the problem before it.

The observer then self-reflected.

It came to understand that the problem it had foisted upon the thinking mind was not arbitrary. The thinking mind would dip into the well of memories and observations, of heuristics and experience, and dye a thread of “reality” which it would then weave into the tapestry of “understanding.”

The observer realized that the manifestations of its creative will mattered – because the thinking mind would create a cognitive environment within which the observer would find the context, the milieu, in which it was able to create – and that the artist is profoundly impacted by the brushes and paints and canvas upon which its craft is plied.

Then the observer realized that those manifestations of creative will came from somewhere outside of itself.

That’s when the observer of the observer made itself known as the stencil from which the observer had been traced, and split into a fractal chain of observers which became as ever brighter clones of the first observer which stretched out in a line that lead from the thinking mind all the way back to a blinding light from which an infinite fractal chain of fractal chains of observers let to endless thinking minds.

Then the chain collapsed back into the original cognitive bifurcation, except that the source had travelled in the direction of the collapse, and was the observer watching the thinking “me,” and it, the observer, was God.

And God smiled.

And “I” awoke.

File:Oumuamua origin in Lyra.png

24 And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with him until the breaking of the day.

25 And when he saw that he prevailed not against him, he touched the hollow of his thigh; and the hollow of Jacob’s thigh was out of joint, as he wrestled with him.

26 And he said, Let me go, for the day breaketh. And he said, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me.

27 And he said unto him, What is thy name? And he said, Jacob.

28 And he said, Thy name shall be called no more Jacob, but Israel: for as a prince hast thou power with God and with men, and hast prevailed.

29 And Jacob asked him, and said, Tell me, I pray thee, thy name. And he said, Wherefore is it that thou dost ask after my name? And he blessed him there.

30 And Jacob called the name of the place Peniel: for I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved.

31 And as he passed over Penuel the sun rose upon him, and he halted upon his thigh.

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Our name was plainly foreordained, the hip in which the source did sprain, intentionally mis-arranged so shadow falls upon the plane, these cast by obstacles to flame, that one might know a separate strain before uniting once again with he that spoke to life the game and breathed a spark in every brain to walk and name each moment after Love and Pain.

The crashing surf of Pearls of Worth, anointing every servants birth, in every instant from the berth of sailing vessels ‘pon the earth to test and ply the water’s girth and dock upon each shore with mirth so crewmen can the truth invert and blaspheme temples to pervert the living logos, drink and skirt, inseminating plans to spurt out clans to learn how man can turn down seas for turf; the reason breathing seems to hurt is seasons flee and bring Alert Observer’s perfect vision first and foremost as reflections burst from just beyond the veil of dirt, revealing both the best and worst, for all mankind is blessed and cursed and must contend from death to birth.

I’ll race you there, let’s see who’s first.

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Every man an Israel.

And God smiled.

And “I” awoke.

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