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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.
Corina Mar 2012
everday you'll say it gets better
though it only gets worse
tomorrow is always a promise of live getting better
but when today arives, you still feel sad and num, and find yourself thinking it's no use.

feeling sad
and every day a little bit sadder but you don't know why
this was going to be the most perfect year yet
your body is aching and you feel betrayed
your soul's aching and i feel...
horriefied

but then everything turns num again
and i just stare in the distance and wish it was night, and nothing else but sleep was intresting
but today is day, and i know there are things that need attention
ignorance builds a bigger hell.

my favorite poems don't cheer me up any more
sad songs are made of just words
and not your ten degree room, but your soul feels cold
and i wish i had a place to be homesick to.
Ariel Taverner Apr 2014
Its an intresting thing
That she lies
Not to me
No
She would not lie to me
Simply because she
As a person
Is against any form of dishonesty
And that is why she completely believes that
She is
A stupid girl
An insignificant girl
A waste-of-space girl
A useless girl
But in reality she is the one I look to for inspiration
She is the one that makes me significant
She occupies the empty space in my heart
She is the most amazing person ever

I hope she knows that
To me
It is not just a silly goodnight note
It is what makes me sleep
It is not an unimportant rambling
It helps me love
It is not a pointless letter
It is what I keep close to my heart
It is not an unnecessary reminder
It is necessary for my vitality

And I hope that she knows that
She makes me feel like an amazing person
That she makes me feel like a monumental person
That she finally makes me feel adequate That she makes me feel valued

So that is why it is intresting in the most grotesque way that she lies to herself
And I hope that she knows that she does lie to herself
Yes, you are ugly
containing a thousand thing
I refuse to understand
and continue to hate.

But for millions of grey
and faceless people
who constantly lie.
There is a silly beautiful few
So intresting and felling and dear.
Those, who will understand me and hear.

And for six month of starving
and nearly giving up my life.
There are free month of waiting
so sweet as I know what is next
And there are three months of living
When the luck is the law.

So I still love you, my dear world
And the only thing I ask you
Is to call the odds in my favor
So I could try living one more time.
Sydney Ann Nov 2015
Dreams of life outside the confines
Little Wisps of hope swirl angry
My world is books and worlds and minds
When souls do starve, minds are hungry.
Intresting
Ignis Mar 2017
In my late night wanderings
On the endless virtual plane
I met a new soul

What a soul indeed
Whose words captured meanings
Akin to a vice

Who noticed the small things
Observations
That I didn't expect

It seemed to me
A delightful fellow
With intresting experience

The conversation flowed smooth
I left happy
I wish the same for them

What a new soul
A breath of fresh air
Simply nice
Joi Lindsay Dec 2015
W=WONDERFUL
E= EXCITING
I= INTRESTING
R=REAL
D= DIFFERENT
          
For all them haters out there who call people weird and a nerd!

N= NEW
E= EXCELLENT
R= ROYAL
D= DETERMINED
Y=  YOUNGER AND MORE TERRIFIC THAN YOU
Everything is better with you
Movies are more intresting
Music has meaning
And even my tears
Are just a little sweeter

With you,
Life feels good,
It feels like I'm living

I love you
Maybe I always have
Or maybe I just
Keep falling in love with you
Over and over again

Either way it is the most
Painfully beautiful feeling.
How intresting that the word insanity
Is made of, in and sanity
Yet to be it you but be out of sanity
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Oh, to be certain, she* was dead serious.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXVII)


Quoth she, "...THIS fashion plate." to, smiling, scale
Me lo, from pink headband to tall boots' dense
Black, like the comment she was stylish thence
Was--what? to MY attire?!  and whither?  pale
As friends and kindness, poor attempts t'avail
Myself of being half stylish, all's pretense?
So guys stop talking when I pass, a sense
Of turning heads mine for too long sans bail.
I'm "never good enough." Or what is't, fer
All that?  What am I chasing?  Wherefore do
NonChristians seem...is't kinder?  Why in poor
'Scuse did the church um, ladies, tell me two
Times that:  "your outfits are [for aught as twere]
E'er intresting."?!  Laugh.  Tell me what is true?

13Apr19c
I've been turning men's heads for 20 years, to no avail.
*Church ladies from another church concurred with her assessment, ergo, what's with the ladies I did hobnob with, eh?!  Envy?
Baby Sagwal Jun 2014
THROUGH HAPPINESS
MY EYES WERE SHINING
MY FACE WAS GRINNING
I HAD  FEELING THAT I NEVER HAVE
WHICH
WITH FLASHLIGHT ME WAS  DRESSED
I HAD  A FEELING
THAT I WAS FLYING
WITH SADNESS I WAS NOT DYING
I SHOULD HAVE THAT FEELING
BECAUSE THATS SO INTRESTING
Antonina Dutchak Sep 2016
You are no longer mine.
The heart beats slower.
If see you, I'll pass by,
My head I'll lower.

What's your name again?
Your image eyes forgot.
Those, who weren't in pain
Never loved.

I don't cry, don't weep
Honestly, I never did.
The heart cannot forgive
The one who made it bleed.

Sometimes I think of...
Love...Intresting thing.
Everyone lives to love,
I loved to live.

I love you no more.
Bye, beloved, bye.
I wait no longer for...
I'll say nothing at your "Hi".

But now, see, I can't...
I'm fine, just...
No longer, my friend
I'm able to trust.

I locked myself in a chamber
Holding a bottle to whet.
All write to remember,
I write to forget
Vladimir s Krebs May 2018
Every day you play me as a fool you take all my hope and dreams and smash them everyday mom you scream at me for the hard work i do for you dad all you do is scream at my face leaving me with pain deep down all you ***** do is scream at me treat me like im nothing but a ******* joke a fool. You do nothing but call your self family when i have nothing to left to say nothing cause all **** day you scream at me from sun up to sun down



Your choice of words are intresting but your like a bottle of liquir you drink it all day one its gone so is you soul


Havnt you seen your words chase me away

You nothing but a joke your self  playing with fire



Your life is a lie you call your self human when you cant evne control yourself and speak to me me like i am real


I regret to say i think you have nothing you are nothing


Your like a bottle of liquir you drink it all **** day and it empty at the end


Truthfully i am human i have a voice mom and dad you will never understand I DONT GIVE 2 ***** WHAT YOU SAY YOUR ALL ******* WAST OF TIME YOU OVISLY HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO DO WASTING MY TIME WHEN I AM MARRIED QND HAVE MY OWN FAMILY I REGRET TO SAY I NEVER CARED WHAT YOU SAY I NEVER CARED YOU ONLY LET SCARES THAT RIDE MY BODY DEEPLY


YOU PLAYED ME AS THE FOOL WHEN YOUR NOTHING BUT FOOLS YOUR SELVES
Been screamed at my whole like nothing to say
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
it was only supposed to have lasted
from the 22nd March till tomorrow,
the 19th of April...
               but looking at it,
I'll be spending an extra month in
this once, formerly, town with
a bright future, communist red,
where, once upon a time,
buildings that could house:
   2 x 10 x 4 = 80 families sprouted
out of thin air,
like steroid mushrooms after
the first rains of autumn...
              and the local team played
in the ekstraklasa...
    and this that and the other...
now... civitas emeritus...
town of pensioners and
niedobitków... the rest of rats
jumped ship...
          once around 17,000+
men employed in the steel works...
now? plenty of greenery,
the odd alcoholic teaching tango
and enough empty space and timeless
vacancy to fill up...
the ongoing retirement of 20 odd years
of my grandfather... 2ho's brain
is slowly being eaten away...
by, as he says, in the pospolity zór...
leń... no killer proteins just yet,
but something tells me being the last
person standing among your
friends, nuanced friends and
all the formality of acquiantences
can do the head in.
   small town, small business,
I don't even know if I can be bothered
to hit the road and head up to
Marienburg...
       honestly pains me, but I wish
a ******* termite would climb into
Sienkiewicz's krzyżacy...
the book is killing me...
   and even if I did make it to Marienburg,
i'd come back and still find
the grueling grill and the żelazna
                     dziewica
about
to poke my eyes out...
   classic, yes, pillar of
literary national pride, probably,
necessary export? in film alone...
    plus
   - I heard termites find paper like
some sort of Oriental delicacy equivalent
to man and the world and his
whorrish-glam Harrod's oysters...
   only Arabs and Harrod's and that
**** pile of glitter is like puke on canvas
by *******... a question of conneisours,
or car boot sale enthusiasts of Essex County.
- just one more month,
far far away, from the dirge of London,
and the subsequent outer suburban
    labyrinth of weeding out middles and clues
and classes in counting hairs on
the heads of brooms, contra: violin bows...
and never to my liking the spectacle
of spring on that ****** island...
cherry blossom so rare,
unlike that street in Bonn,
                               Spring on the continent
in general, not to mention the eyes
becoming more and more used
to the monochrome homogeneity...
with me, as the sole importer,
the sole Marco Polo who came from
a vicinity of the East End Caravan
with 'indu spices, and cooked the old
farts curry...
                           plus the intresting news
regarding an organisation, O.N.R.
                                  i never thought they might
exist, good to know that there are
exteme, fringe groups out there,
worthy contenders with the mainstream
mullets
...
                      and yes, Marienburg
will definitely continue to look better on
a postcard than in real life...
                                 a walk in fresh air,
a beer and sandwich an I'm off to the land
of Nod... dreaming of sleeping
and waking and finding something
between a stash of: pearls,
        eggs, silver eggs, silver gooey tadpoles,
silver-azure frog spawn...
      and then falling back to sleep in
my dream, and subsequently waking
to my grandfather nagging my grandfather...
which ends up with a cigarette
and a consolidatory piece of
mole mound cake for each of us...
       and the day is spent...
                I'd have to be daft not to "hide"
in this outpost, learning more and more
about the: kashubians, der pyry...
          hanysy (warsaw shlang für
scheiße, schlauß) / silesians...
     rzeszowskie rubieże...
      zór mazowsze (masovia)
                           krakusy i czystosze...  
and what about that cwaniak
warszawski, z prahi, ten... andrus?
swa-vo-merrh, piszem sławomir...
tak samo jak ten goalkeeper a t'
'amtem in crux: golkiper...
                          prosze bardzo, prosze prosze...
gramatycznie to raz,
                       a fonetycznie, to dwa.
I mean, why would I leave this outpost,
when there is absolutely no reason to
write any form of existential angst...
where I can be told:
born on the 15th of May,
          the day when Saint Sophia takes
to blooming lilac, when lilac wakes...
back in England you really have to scout
for spring, then again daffodils are not
trees... plus there's this missing natural
orchestral harmonium of successive waves
of some other botanical form finding
intrest, as if an reborn whisper of curiosity
and joy...
             which, your garden variety
of English... doesn't really tell you...
unless it's spring, you couldn't tell a difference
between it an soggy summer...
or for that matter, bland Victoria sponge.
but what I don't miss in the least is...
leeching drunk to the internet's blank pixel
slate...
           even I know that a sober poem
is sometimes required,
which doesn't exactly dissolve the otherwise
entrenched darting juxtapositions
and Dr. Braillesurf's stipend and in genral
streuenhirn...
        in general the Internet and fame,
based on two songs...
donkey's years since I last heard
   rizzle kicks' mama do the **** -
released in 2011, views 17+ millions...
don't ask me how an algorithm took me
to the other song...
  only heard it today
released in 2007... only heard it today...
panamore' misery business -
views?! 153+ millions, yes, that an extra
000 added to the first song...
           and still 11 years later...
     it's this sort of oddity that makes
me believe in the local government,
small cities and in genral the village life...
the neighbour and the gossip angst of
these people...
                 some say: at least they'll come
to the funeral...
                          looks like
I already found the string of planets
de Saint-Exupéry's Prince Petit visited...
and my own among them...
   good to know, that it's a small world
after all, and not some competition
to transmit a radio broadcast from
either the zenith of the Himalayas,
        or the nadir of the Marina Trench.
Pralina Oct 2017
Beautiful as the sea
Happy as the sun
Playful as the wind
and intresting as the fire

Her dancing reminds you of rain
Seing her sad causes you pain

You know you enjoy
her unecpected side
You know you could
never bare to see her cry

She is clever
She is talented
She is a friend
and she is important

Her name is Helen
sth that i wrote for my friend's birthday
Born Mar 2020
Took a break from writing
Been enveloped in what seems to be a
Confusing reality,
And the repercussions of everything

Been arguing or discussing
With a friend about world  economy
And how the world has become a global village.
And the warning signs of how this could be devastating than 2009 recession
And the devastating consequences of our ignorance when it comes to politics

Been 8 months, since I truly sat down and wrote something
Something like a poem, a shade of reality or a rant, as I famously call them

Been awhile since I wrote about what I believe
My perception on our cultural activities, societal uh-uhm "clings"
All that ticks with our behavioral patterns
Religions, last I checked I was reviewing lord Shiva ( Hinduism) and Buddhism
Intresting stuff

Isolation and social distancing

Got me thinking of how we live our lives
Wondering if social media has been isolating us and the governments are just making it official?
How we are dependent on virtual reality!
How lonely one can be!
What and who matters, me, you, us, them, vanity!
Why we fear death and never live our lives preparing for it!

Life

I don’t have a certain answer to the big questions of why and how to live, but my best guess is that life is a playful act best guided by curiosity.
Children intuitively know this, of course, but the rest of us become rigid over time
We harden ourselves to deal with change and uncertainty. We forget how to play, and we get so busy making plans that we no longer know what it takes to lose ourselves in simple moments without always being bound to a clear purpose.
This is the problem of seriousness — an entirely passionless state that gets mistaken for maturity


That's it

I don't know whether to call this a come back, or a faltered decision inspired by humans or the current events. But nonetheless, I'll be writing and sharing my perception of certain or uncertain realities. This is the best way to share myself with the world.
Zat Rana inspired life
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Yo.

(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXXVII)


Roll words across my tongue as fog trims thence
The distance and rain pours in sheer betrayl
Down every window, like choice phrases' scale
Of what is beats out sheer real'ty hence,
How evning culls perspective in a sense:
Mists shroud the thought of yonder with a veil,
The clustered houses silent as, t'avail
I look out on the ghostly naught's pretense.
And oh! What do I try for in a poor
Attempt which falls upon its face anew?
Scroll through pics of stylish ladies' tour
Of lux'ry boots, and they'll still call my view,
Yes, outfits:  "intresting."  Mist woo as twere
My soul, and violets know my name, else, who?

23Feb19b
(Note: the initial quatrain is a snapshot from in the car.)
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Ahem.    Well, here's breach of rigidity, shall we say?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXVI)


If I'm too busy as sheer gloaming thence
Draws lo, the curtains on these frore scapes' tale,
How darkness cozens ere that dinner hail,
This piecemeal chance for sustnance in a sense
Half lonely, til I wander off fr'intents,
To flip through People magazine t'avail
Me of a picture, and why friends ere'd scale
My sweaters and tweed skirts as what from hence?!
"You allus wear such intresting clothes." Were
My choices strange when all don black, and to
A fault wear skinny jeans and leggings through
The week, nor ever touch tall boots?  Is't poor?
Am I thus slated to be odd in tour
Cuz my tastes are not like theirs?  What'd I do?
We're "social creatures."  I've no lover too.

16Feb19b
Of my three tutors, the elder twain (one from CA, and the other the UK) would urge me to bend or break outright the sonnet's cardinal rule of "14 lines imabic pentametre" one citing 16-line accepted pieces by I think Andrew Marvel was it?
..thanks to accidentally beginning the stanza up a line on the page, I was loth to leave the empty line below it, so....

— The End —