philosophical rambling

It's interesting how timeless certain thoughts are. Jung once claimed that we have a collective unconscious, where the members of a certain species share a collection of personal experiences in similar ways. He described it as "a second psychic system of a collective, universal, and impersonal nature which is identical in all individuals." While I am unsure whether or not there actually is a collective unconscious, whether or not we do all share some universal nature, it's interesting to consider the fact that we do. Look at philosophers over time. In Plato's Allegory of the Cave, men are chained to and facing a cave wall. They live their whole lives thinking that the shadows coming from the fire behind them are reality, that this is the only truth. Yet, it is only after they break the chains and walk out of the cave that they can see what reality truly is. The same idea is illustrated in the theory of the brain in a vat. In The Matrix, people live their every day lives in what they know as reality, however reality is really them being harvested by machines which simulate reality for them. Again, it's when they are able to break the barriers of their false reality that they will be able to see what reality really is. This causes questions of one's consciousness and reality to arise. In Daniel Dennett's short story, "Where Am I?" the narrator undergoes a surgery that disconnects his brain from his body, but still allows him to function. The narrator then questions where his consciousness lies, in his brain or his body. He spends a significant amount of the story bouncing between the two, until his brain is cloned and he has to decide which brain is his true self. 
So what is the self? How can we know where are conscious lies? Where is our consciousness, who is our consciousness? How do we know if we are chained to a cave wall, living an illusion? Or being fed an alternate reality by machines? The reality is that we cannot know either thing. I believe that our consciousness and our selves are what we make them. In existentialism, philosophical thinking depends on the experiences of the individual. We will never know whether or not there is a God or some greater force, such as machines stimulating what we believe to be reality. Instead we have to make the conscious decision to believe in one or not. The narrator in Dennett's story struggles to decide whether his brain or his body is his self and his consciousness. In my opinion, Dennett's narrator is more aware of this classic struggle: mind, body, or spirit; than most others. The narrator has the ability to consciously decide what he wants to believe, because there is no way to ever know.

So where does that leave us? Am I the philosopher walking out of the cave, seeing the world for the first time? Has anything thing changed? Yes and no. I am consciously aware of my abilities as a single human being. I can make my own reality. I can choose what I want to believe. But can there be another reality I am unaware of? Yes. Because I would have been born into it and programmed to lack that awareness. All I can know is that my conscious mind exists. It's possible that my body isn't even real.

The real question is: will I try my best to wake up from an alternate reality if that's the case? Yes. I would take the red pill if given the chance.

let me know

It's interesting reading my writing. I can see the change. I can see the development. Recently my prose has been much more focused on simplicity and sound. It's a bit naïve. Rugged. My words are rough and stuttering. Period. Pause. Think. Countdown. One worded strengths, strong single words, carrying the writing on their backs. Simplicity is heaven right now. If you want me, let me know. I am a child, so raw and honest. So unaware. Too aware. I am a child who is too honest and too aware that everyone else is not. But I don't understand why. I am the naïve. Why would you lie to me? It's simple. Simple words. Simple responses. If you want me, let me know. If you want me...

Eyes shut. Eyes shut. Eyes shut. Eyes open.
You.
Eyes open and there you are and here I am, eyes open. Eye contact made. Countdown to conversation? 0, 0, 0. None. No conversation. No words spoken, no sound waves filling the air. Empty. Dead space.
No one can hear you scream.

bad habits

I like to kiss boys. I like getting their attention, I like making their heads turn. I like to look down and slowly look up, catching them with my gaze. I like when they tug at my hips, pull my body up against theirs. On my tippy toes, I like kissing boys. I like being pushed up against the wall and kissed. Behind the locked door, I like to kiss boys. Bite my lips and look you in the eyes and kiss you. Countdown to impact, one, two, three, it's just you next to me. I like the way you taste and the way your breath mingles with mine. I like to kiss boys and walk away. Kiss the boys and leave them wanting more. I like to kiss boys.

old but fitting

I miss the ground beneath my bare feet, raw slaps on the pavement eroding years of harsh grooves. The kind that make our bodies fit together, despite the fact that we were made apart. And the crooked teeth you’re always filing down, preparing for your feast of flesh. The things you’d do to quench your need, the things I need but cannot do. I miss the way the pavement comforts me, it’s harsh lines becoming soft pillows I can close my eyes and fall into. I feel alone, wandering in my shoes. My toes so close, yet so far from feeling you, from etching my story into your soft earth.

Oh, the irony,

Never thought I'd be the victim of a hit and run, never thought I'd be the victim of a lack of fun. Never thought I'd be the victim of a love triangle, but here I am standing, slumping, hiding my face. It's the worst possible kind of triangle, the equilateral, the strongest shape, the one architects and hipsters orgasm over. The one you have a tattoo of on your left bicep. The one you're going to have a tattoo of on your left bicep. Oh, oh, oh, the irony of this group of three. The two of you are too close for any of this to end well. But here I am rocking back and forth with my mind cascading down a waterfall. I had never been kissed like you kissed me, you with the tattoo, you who curled your arm around me and held me tight as I slept. But then you who will soon be matching in tattoodom, you give me a different kind of butterflies. You kissed me suddenly and in secret, the first chance you got to be alone with me. I don't know who I want. The boy who kissed my rough or the boy who kissed me soft. I want one of you to take control and go for it and kiss me again and again. Here I am craving more than just a kiss but promising myself to leave it at just that. I have far too many feelings to be getting myself into anything right now and we all know that. Besides, it was just a kiss.
It was only a kiss.

I've never been kissed like that before.