One of the major described methods of achieving an expanded state of consciousness, (the continual remembering of yourself) can only be executed by constantly forgetting a whole bunch of stuff that ordinarily fills man's consciousness.

You can’t go to sleep if you mind only your own business.

A father said to a son:
“The most important thing to remember is that you can remember selectively,
and that there is only one thing those like us need to remember.”

Ordinary consciousness' comments about what’s going on in life
is like the laugh track heard on a questionably funny tv comedy.

One man says: “The only reason I’m not a complete idiot today
is that I always only do things half way.                              (Guess I should add: ‘Thank god.’) ”

Definition.
Torpidity: The place where what men call physicality and spirituality meet.

Someone asked a world famous psychiatrist:
“How do you determine that a person is insane?”
    “They speak of: ‘Spiritual Laws.’ ”
                     (P.S. If it makes any difference: he isn’t really a psychiatrist; he owns a welding shop.)

Only humans can afford to love the past, for while it is clearly dead,  
via their mental memory it yet again lives.
While mere hands can produce an elaborate feast,
only thoughts can whip up a myth to go along with it,
and which seems to make the leftovers more interesting.
The past is entertainment for an ordinary consciousness
with nothing attracting it at the moment.
Thoughts need something to chase after like dogs do cars,
and men’s naturally occurring ones have such  --  other people's words;
only the certain man has specialized neural canines that can produce their own target,
and this is the unrealized intransigent internal gap between him and
the rest of man's mental world.

For people to engage in conversation about something besides farming and mechanics they must between them, construct an imaginary world,
about which they will speak as though it is real;
the same situation exists in your consciousness concerning the activity that
ordinary men call thinking.
    (“Is there no getting away from this thing at all!”)

One Duke’s extramarital sex life remained problematic --  in that he continued to have trouble differentiating between the words courtesan and cortisone.
(Though during the times even when he wasn’t getting laid, he was arthritis free).

Whenever one man's consciousness gets mad it makes him grin like a potted possum, as soon as the full reality of what has happened hits him.

Conversation.
“Those who truly deserve fame rarely become famous.”
    “I take it you’re not famous.”
“How’d you know that?!”

(Post script to an earlier story):
Nothing is more popular in prison than the past.

Conversation Continued.
 “I asked you how you knew that!”

Just as having no rhythm won’t keep a man from dancing,
neither will not actually knowing anything about waking up keep one from talking
as though he does.
(An eagle however is not fooled by the flight of a hyena.)

How Consciousness Is Not  Prone To Work.
One drug dealer was known as Frosty (for the obvious reason  –   his carrot nose).

There are two levels of play in the Proverb Game;
  the big league, and the little one;
    in the latter: note is made of human behavior;
      in the former, that which produces the latter.
      (In good years the former consists of one player.)

Although he was less than fully convinced: one man periodically exhorted his cells: “Come on guys!  –  I know you can do it!”
(“It costs me nothing,” he notes, “and who knows  --  it might do some good?!”
The main prison on one planet was named: “Who Knows?!”
[As also was its most famous escapee.])

One of the city park philosopher's latest offerings:
“If it wasn’t for words  –  men would be treating each other like dirt.”

Conversation II.
“The conspiracy running the world doesn't have any of the really smart people.”
    “So –  you’re not part of the conspiracy, eh.”
One man wrapped up the matter of recognition in the metaphysical realm
as per a biblical allusion:
“You’re either a real john the baptist or else an imaginary jesus;
either an actual mouth or an illusory screed: it’s one or the other dear friends.”

Standing in the chemical downpour, a man said:
 “Being able to quote oneself makes life in prison enjoyable,”
    to which his brother added: “If not tolerable,”
     and just then their mother arrived with their goulashes
       to deliver them from the neural inclemency.
Being permitted to offer personal explanations for your confinement
makes ordinary prisoners somehow feel less disturbed by their situation.

With little enthusiasm does come death  –  that’s why it is death.            (Same for stupidity.)

In a pathetic paternal attempt to cheer up the tike, a father said to a son:
“Remember this: At least an unconscious man has nothing to worry about.”

The nearest thing there is to a History of the future is the awakened man’s thoughts. (And even they are not a certainty).