Eyes wide
you do not allow
oblivious sleep
shadows branded
on my retina
reveal all contrast
tattooed on my shoulder
a skeletal hand
this illusion  
pins me down

your questions
have no answers
questions remain
asked again and again
I swear
I know nothing

You say everything
is immaterial
subjectively real
ideas existent
in the mind
of the perceiver
I am
(you insist)
a true believer

Parched and shrinking
I ask for mercy
you bring the cup
to my fissured lips
but it is empty
a vessel of air
you murmur
there is only enough
for one
what will you give
in return?

Heavy metal
arpeggios of wind
head bang
petulant faces
inured to rain
a repeating refrain
in falsehood
lies your truth

but even you
cannot halt the dawn
a dark horizon
pulls the strings
powerless
you sink
behind the cloud-
wall of your storm

is it safe now to close my eyes?
three times whisper
be gone
              bright fiend
a weary incantation
spell of protection
the yawning wind
done with howling
hums reassuringly
                            
                       *“a change is gonna come
                                                            ­      imagine
                                                   ­                            peace in our time”

INTP
Introvert
Intuitive
Thinker
Perceiver
Highly intellectual but
score lower than expected on
standardized tests
Fascinated with the world
Plan maker and
abandoner
Frighteningly unemotional and seemingly moves on from devastating events rapidly
Acts self absorbed but
truly cares for people under the cold exterior
Often feels detached from the world
Unable to articulate great idea and thoughts exactly
Loves to argue and debate
for learning sake but
some don’t see it as
friendly banter
Called the mad scientist without
convention
An absent-minded wonderfully built learner,
That INTP

Beauty, they say, is in the eye of the beholder. I, myself, believe that it lie in the hand of the perceiver.

Qualia, if they exist, describe experience.

Perceptions are frames of consciousness
that define experience: would they be given a number
representing frames per second [FPS].

There must be something to perceive
for there to be experience, and the perceiver:
A machine/dreamer through which energy flows
for perception to occur; neural oscillation cycles
equating to perceptual frames of consciousness
where a frequency would equal a certain FPS.

A moment in a dream, a quale.
The realm of the Oneiroi beckons:

During REM sleep there is no experiential context,
Suppose a dream's content is be sourced from memory:
Thence memory morphs into dreaming. Perhaps the actions
of acetylcholine during sleep disrupt temporality, meanwhile
serotonin and norepinephrine play another role in dream activity;
Were dopamine ever-so minutely implicit in lucidity?

If a dream could be quantized could we identify a quale?
The goal, to prove that qualia exist. Perhaps this 'heavy realm'
could then be described using this qualitative formula, we strive
to produce a quantum of experience.

As analogue is to digital, so digital should be to quanta.
Ah, but who would ever listen
to my nonsense.

I'm just a dreamer
and such a chancer. (Aren't we all?)

nothing is created nor destroyed, 
energy to mater, only changed.how many forms are there that are being changed between-
the good and the bad in the world,
is that the purpose?. get the most out of a net zero game-at what point does there become so much something that it becomes the nothing and  the nothing: the something. what is the difference between a blank white and a blank black sheet of paper. at which point do the negative and the positive space switch definitions? does it need to be perceived to be real? and if in the end, when there is all of one thing, and none of the other left anymore, does the other start to grow and become the new something?
the behaviors of subatomic particles and the units which compose what we think of: change when observed, what else changes when observed. electrons become particles, electrons become waves. in one place. now another. both never and always here and there.
and
i often wonder if i'm crazy
of if everyone else is crazy and i'm among the sane. few and far between.
of if we are all crazy together,
and the craziest thing of all is that we never let each other know just how crazy we are.

that would truly be the most tragic.

for each and every individually to believe so much. feel so much. break apart so much in every instant as to doubt the sanity of their each and every moment.
and
never be able to tell you exactly how it feels, or even to hardly
try
while all along, i know. and you know. and they know. exactly what they could mean.
if only they could ever decide to talk about it.

or if words and impressions were enough to know someone by

i wonder if you've sat in the bath tub as a child- while the water was running out all around you
pensive about the whirlpool twisting everything small and fluid around it down the drain.
i wonder if you've wondered what it would feel like to be really small in the water as it got ****** down- not an object, just a view-point.maybe like a disembodied perceiver that can see and touch and feel. and what would it feel like. and be like to be washed down and plunged into swirling sensory overload.

almost like something that would happen on the magic school bus.

what if at every instant we could be everywhere in a way like that. every possible place the magic school bus could go. or explore. or know. we could be. all at once.

but at the same time we would be big too, so we could put it all into perspective  make sense of all things things and live by them. live in a way where we knew how to be right to each other because that was true.

what is we could magicschoolbus into things that were not physical- like feelings. and love. and comfort. and personalities

that would be pretty cool.

what if everyone i meet, knew instantly that i was the first born of the many cousins on my dad's side. and that my grandma lived downstairs and  my aunts and uncles were always there. and i was babied. and all the time i was was young, there were babies and children and people who loved them there. and i was always around that and that i have never left that place. and that i am young.
and i am very sweet. and very sincere if i can get the chance but i cant; get the chance anymore because its hard. and i'm sorry. i'm so sorry. for my casual insincerity and defenses because all of my stoicism is me so full of feeling but i'm not supposed to show it anymore.  and all the people i can't run up to and hug anymore would know. and that at any given moment- i'd give anything just to make a blanket fort and fill it with stuffed animals. but i'd look pretty foolish. and everyone would probably say i was mentally handicapped. even the ones who used to baby me. and the babies i built them with.

isn't that something.

Those chanting waves breathe the void!
Circling into mental quietude
Enter where the Lord of Form rests in a
Constant stand still.

Around that cyclic circle of life-fire
His minions utter noises of non-meaning
to praise the very notion of sound and being!

Chant, chant, chant to reveal this eternal
moment we all reside in showing love and
understanding regardless of who or what.

What level can you reach in your human form?
Can you touch the void with the form of fingers?
Chant yourself into oblivion and god..
Go beyond chanting.
Go beyond god.
Go beyond the beyond.
Touch the void where there is no longer perceiver nor perceived.
There you can reach the inner state of emptiness from
which all form comes from.

Like a giant Sequoia tree, well aged and outwardly still tall and firmly anchored                                        
I proudly display, my outer senescent bark, but inside, I’m pitted and cankered

Still majestic and straight, branches spread, with fingered needles reaching for the sky                            
But at each limb joint, those cracks lay hidden; not yet visible, to the naked eye

Those blisters ravage and rage, at my inner trunk; but not, so you can clearly see                                                                                    
Hidden by the sap; like those morning rheum tears, which seep out and crust on me

I reach skyward, extend my branches to the sun; my sieve tubes there unplugged                                                                                  
But below, my veins congested, and my arteries full of sap, are fully clogged  

And yet I stand, without an outward tremble; disguising well the tremors in my roots                                  
With all my strength, I will them hold; do not cede, to the pain that in them shoots                                                        

I will perceiver; not able to bend with the wind, I stand firm still; until I break                                              
Stiffen my resolve; until my fluids coagulate, and rigor mortise does me overtake                                
BOEMS BY JA 397