The thinking of the collective and that of the certain man
can both run indefinitely by eating themselves;
their difference is: the first has its produced for it while the latter creates its own;
(cannibalism is not the same thing when kept in the family).
The common herd can live off whatever it finds;
the certain man’s mind must make its own meals.
    (“I guess that cuts way down on going out, huh?!”)
 
 
 
 

How Mind Works As Per A PC.
Thought is a virus protection that can infect you,
(that is of course if your head is packin’ one of those transcendoolious models) .
 
 
 
 

If you ask someone else’s opinion of how you feel,
they will always indicate that there is: some problem.
A man-who-knows-what's-going-on seeks outside diagnoses with much deliberation,
(which is to say: “Concerning machinery I can’t fix and surgery I can’t do on myself.”)

Fact: The dumber you are, the less help you need.
    “Aren't there clear exceptions to this!”
If you say so.
 
 
 
 

If a nervous system rebel hated anything it would be the dead,
(and in case you don’t get it: nothing is deader than the past).
    “You mean save: reviving deceased snakes by thinking about them?!” Exemptimundo!
 
 
 
 

Some myth makers in another solar system fell into a discussion of
what was the foremost ingredient in being a god, and one of them said:
“The primary requirement is to have unlimited power,” and another countered:
“No, the main thing you need is supreme wisdom,” and a third objected:
“Nay, first in importance is to have a name,”
and they all instantly realized the validity of his observation.
(And off in private, a god said to himself: “If I’d known beforehand how mind works --
I don’t believe I’d’ve come here.”)

The inside of your mouth doesn’t look like it feels to you.
(Feel free to raise this a few inches higher in your head and run with it).
 
 
 
 

Definition.
History: The failing attempt to remember.
   “I don’t get it.”
You used to.
 
 
 
 

Strange Fact.
There is no way to prove to yourself that you know what you are doing  --
unless you can survive death.
   (“I assume this requires a non standard definition of death?”)

Irrelevant said to Impertinent:
“Buy you a drink?”
     “I don’t know: what’s your sign?”
“Come here often?”
     “Not any more.”
Fact: When you’ve gone so far that you can’t look back  --  you’re getting close.
 
 
 
 

Rhyme Regarding The Dual Citizenship Of Man.
    Men with small brains,
    will go to great pains,
    to dress in the style of the herd;

    those with dwarf minds,
    must bust their behinds,
    to run and compete with the pros;

    eyes glued to the ball,
    can make a man fall,
    if the game being played’s not his own;

    while genes are the scheme,
    that chooses your team,
    only cows take their contract to heart.

Additional Verse That May Make It Worse.
They spotted the ball on the fifty yard line,
as adrenaline dribble I wiped from my mind;
a team on the right and one on the left,
pressure above and below, I both felt.

Remember rookies: A hobby is no longer a hobby  --  if you take it seriously.
(Note: Hormones can’t sign a contract,
and neurons’ signature ain’t worth the juice it's written on.
   “So that means if I do agree to play for whoever,
     I’ll still end up feeling traitorous about it?!”
If you have the good taste of a true rebel.)
 
 
 
 

On his voyage: one man carries along so much collective type baggage
that he constantly runs the risk of being charged extra, or having it drag him overboard.
Moos make sense to cows  --  but, who else?
   “I regret that I have but limited gelatin to give to my country.”
(That’s the great thing about living in the city:
you’re never asked for more than you have  [well, including what you imagine you have.])
 
 
 
 

Once a man’s neurons have reached their normal maturity,
his hormones heave a sigh of relief,
(and if worse comes to worse: the other way around,
[another benefit of dual citizenship].
    “I’m guessing that, ‘benefit’ here also carries an uncommon connotation.”)
 
 
 
 

Under certain conditions, the herd can enjoy an individual cow who displays
some sign of originality  --  as long as he doesn’t try to go up any higher in their world than is normally possible by standing on the backs of his fellow cattle.

Fact Ignored (Or Something) By Zoology (Inter Alia).
Hormones don’t care what you achieve  --  as long as you stay alive;
neurons can’t imagine being alive without getting the better of your peers.

What a stumendous regatta it be!
Ships that actually sail  --  don’t race,
while everyone’s flying-dutchman salivates over seeming competition.

There is no indication that the Grimms would do you harm,
but their witches and princes will knock you about, given the chance.
 
 
 
 

Fact: The dumber you are, the less help you need.
    “Isn’t there one notable exception to that!”
Now you're getting some where.
 
 
 
 

One man’s view is:
“The principal purpose of collective life for a verbal creature
is to provide an audience for the individual's whining.”
   “I thought that’s what your mind’s ears are for.”
“But no one’s complaints have the maximum ring ‘til they’re uttered aloud.
If life wanted you to keep your gripes to yourself,
it’d make everybody wanna wake up.”
 
 
 
 

An Eye On Cost (And The Illusion Thereof).
The dense can afford to feel superior.

An Eye On The Track.
To the rebel: only his own original thoughts seem to have sufficient speed  --
and even then: they’re usually only good for one brilliant run past the grandstand.

Caution. After tinkering around for a while with this kinda activity,
one man’s machine (I mean mind) began to work differently  --  so:

The Great Transcendental Duck in charge of one herd
one day said unexpectedly to those therein:
“I (speaking allegorically) feel sorry for all of you whose only measurement of success in your life is by standards that are visible.”