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Lauren R Nov 2016
You open your jaws, wide as bone allows.
From the spaces between your teeth
people fall like blood-heavy snowflakes.
Grandmother, brother, mother, daughter,
all made up of paper-mache.
Everyone in front of you sways,
backs arched, lips curled,
curdled like milk in the summer’s heat.
They protect the fragility flying over them.
Wishing cracked and broken things whole.
They fold and tear like origami. Your
brain illuminates itself, paper lantern.
Brightening the thin walls before you.
The weightless, the worldly and the writhing.
They breathe easy.
They peer into our lungs, divulging our restlessness,
our dreaming. Only their synapses
remain, blood slick;
they bind and unbind to yours.
Consciousness ends and consciousness begins.
Consciousness ends and blood begins.
We are unholy Goddesses.
We are unholy goodness.
We are unholy and unbroken and good and God.
This is the only form of song, the pitch from our neurons,
the blood beneath our fingernails, the swaying, the swaying,
these minds and minds
and the never-ending
mindfulness. These crawling, floating,
grieving, forgiving minds.
This is old
traces of being Nov 2016
indifferent to unplanned pathways  
destiny knows not enslaving bounds
pathways crisscross at befallen crossroads
knowing all roads lead to all roads

restlessly searching through the ache writhing within,
the voice of my soul speaks crystalline
through the hidden portal of my heart

beckoning the wounded healer within
be at home in the silent darkness of suffering
to perceive the gems of awakening light;

embrace the lessons where the wounding leads us
to bring forth a healing reincarnation,
intimately feeling the collective pulse of humanity echo
a wholeness in a deeper level our being

the only spark to rekindle a flame blown out
a soul’s assent to the labyrinth through the wound
note:
snippets from a conscious ramble;
a shameless attempt at understanding a potentially higher conscious  self
written to advocate for, to support all wounded healers
that often experience the potential gifts of a wounded heart

if this is "too deep" i'll just keep trying
to find my way through the dark maze on my own

all apologies ... wild is the wind

all in all is all we are ♡
The birth-throes of adulthood is alteration unto its/our own state, the formation and growth of neural connections straining our minds, the brain adapting to phenomena in space and time, deeming it experience. It is this process I reckon to be consciousness.

It was only after adolescence I could begin to understand qualia. During this period my brain was busy going through the teenage 'motions of neurochemical upheaval. My mind was far too young to understand what it intuitively grasped. Something was memorable, meaningless, its qualities stuck in mind. This was how I began to understand qualia, meaningless memories which I treasured beyond measure without knowing why, the essence of nostalgia.

During this time emotion was a mysterious thing I could only feel as coming from my own experiencing ego, not as something occurring between two animals which one alone can never understand (though the narcissist might dispute that). Take love, an attachment, certainly an altered-state, a modifier of behavior, the serotonergic system implicit in its proper function (and if we're lucky, some oxytocin).

We'll hold this for further discussion.
Now for something mildly intresting.

My introduction and use of psychoactives was typical if quite comprehensive (and of course it felt 'special', I still feel this). Fascinated by what substances could do to elicit qualia (though no doubt unable to elucidate this) I lost myself thoroughly, great attracted to the culture around them. This accompanying ethos I could not hope to comprehend took me in its stride. At first I had no reservations as to indulgence, which taught me a few hard lessons. Later I would catch a rare glimpse of this ethos in its motions, gleaming it on occasion.

These times gave rise to specific feeling, recreation followed by reading into the neuroscience brought about a knowledge of some sort. The neurochemicals represented what my experiences were founded upon but not what they were.
I knew them in theory and from practice upon my consciousness,
This knowledge stayed with me long after my 'research' had finished. I would recognise familiar mental sensations in occasional sober interactions, minor alterations in mind brought on by certain foodstuffs (or lack thereof).

What does this answer in relation to qualia?
It tells us that moments are qualitatively conditioned by the given physical constraints.
What power mind and/or brain have over each other remains to be seen, as does the will's constituents and how it comes into being. Does it boil down to binary, exponential subject-object distinctions giving rise to abstract properties? Answers to the question of meta-consciousness continue to elude us.

We hypothesize that the given conditioning can evoke
a certain magnitude of qualia. We assert that qualia exist
to the extent that belief does (and is) but that they are ascribed
to experience by presentation rather than representation.
Belief and desire are propositional whereas qualia are proponents thereof which feedback into behavior, belief and desire.

Tentatively, we suggest that qualia might be measured in term analogous to wave patterns and spectral density while individual quale might be respective to individual neuronal constructs within the neuroplastic structure of the brain.

In this way a given pathway corresponds to a certain experience/memory.
Tyler Stoner Oct 2016
What lies beneath the surface of consciousness,
is a wonderful world of thought and darkness
which we cannot control.

The waters churn
in the background of our minds,
leaving us unaware of our secret
and fascinatingly buoyant imaginations.

When the sea warms
from the convection currents
of our experiences,
to the surface rise
the bubbles that we call
Thoughts.
Maddy Van Buren Oct 2016
I'm drunk
here are the things I never said to you
I don't know why we're fighting
i want you to love like I do
I'm trying my hardest not to stare
at the screen of my phone
it's not a picture of you
I want it to be
I'm doing better though
I don't think I need you
I just really want you
as comfort
no matter how many times
you upset me
and pull the trigger
I'm just drunk
and you're what I want
David Bojay Oct 2016
Like working out
I have to read more to get my mental juices flowing
Language is weird
Not linear
I couldn't see my past so I had to fly out the atmosphere
Imagination
Imagine, my death is near
The roses have risen but time finds its way until the end
Nothing beats a teens ambition to fit in like a trend
and LIKE LIKE LIKE LIKE LIKE
it ALL gets boring

\this got really borning my fineghsr are;nt even toucing the right lettersss anymore  amshhaha
youtube me... David Bojay
David Bojay Oct 2016
hey,


I've been away
Living but no decay
Don't worry I haven't been away
From here, so to say
I found out I was half gay
But that just makes me happy

I'm going to pop my website off

under something else

She's loose, sorry
I had to buy her a belt

The tongue makes it tingle
davidbojay.weebly.com
Crimsyy Oct 2016
6 minutes to 12 am,
I'm your prisoner again,
my breath stains the windows
of this house,
this house is asleep.

Won't awaken to my needs,
Won't keep me full,
my soul needs a feed,
Cannot differentiate
my happiness from my sadness
both are equally opposites extremes.

This is nothing permanent,
Just my mind gone funny,
drained from the ways
I spent my day,
I have this tendency to
take a step forward and leap
and keep running from
what my mind binds me to,
I don't want to feel for you,
I don't want to feel for anyone anymore.
If you leave, at least
shut the ******* door.
Crimsyy Oct 2016
I clothe myself in
memories of you;
They're all hanging in my closet
my closet, my clothes, my bones
Yet somehow the coats that
once belonged to me no longer
block out the chill in my heart.

But my paper heart is stubborn,
It never learns,
It plays with lit matches
then cries when it's burned.

I struggle among the rubble
my own chaos caused,
a victim of a disguised disaster
and there is nothing natural about it...

Self destruction goes against
 **nature's laws.
SøułSurvivør Sep 2016
",,  :  '
,  ° .. '' , °..
. ;   . ." ,, ° '',, .  - ,,
because dust motes appear
in the light
means they are also
in

darkness


SoulSurvivor
(C) 9/24/2016
an observation about
light, consciousness
and the
subconscious

°
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