Conversation Involving Multiple Voices.
“Hey!” cried one, “I’m beginning to get it: life would not have provided
chocolate and  vanilla for man unless it wanted to know which it preferred.”
    “Same concerning Democrats and Republicans.”
          “Yeah!  –   and Christians and Muslims!”
                 “Right on!  –  also: my ideas and your opinions.”
“Hey!” exclaimed the first one again, “we’re all starting to get the hang of it!”
(This story was presented courtesy of the Maybe Someday News Service:
an external reflection of what the conscious part of man’s brain is struggling toward.
    “Didn’t you leave out: ‘…though unnoticed by most’?”
Not necessary: everything that might in real time aid the conscious part is always so:
that is why it is in its minority position and the remainder of the brain is the most
just referred to.
If the conscious part of the brain ever does take direct control of man’s
nervous system, there will be no more news to report  (other than weather forecasts).
 
 
 

A father said to a son:
“While a certain kind of edgy aggression is permissible in your efforts
to stabilize the conscious part of the brain,
it is never so if directed toward other people for any seeming reason.”
 
 
 

No ordinary person can squander their life:
whatever they do serves the purpose needed by life;
only the uncommon few  --  squandering can do,  and that is
specifically concerning the potential available to the conscious part of their brain.
(As mused the metaphorical principal male voice:
“Why be a tenor if you can be a bass!”)
    The only organ or function the nervous-system-rebel can actually insult
    is the conscious part of the brain.
       (“Didn’t you neglect to specify: as per its potential?”
   Again not needed, for everything of interest to the certain man concerning
    consciousness is always in its potential.)
 
 

Sitting in city park, his sentiments one man thus expresses:
“The things in life you can count on  –   ain’t worth countin’.”
 
 
 

If men had a soul then those who have heroes have a hole in theirs.
If you so admire another that you dream of being like him, your inner life is all a dream.
 
 
 

At first glance you would conclude that a man’s mind furnishes him his mental diet,
but this supports the contention that vending machines bake the treats they dispense.
     (“Well, I can contend that if I want to!  –   and no one can disprove it  –
        that’s the mind at work!  –   doing its job like nothing else in the universe!
          Excuse me, but I now need to go lie down.”)
On one world a guy suggested: “Why don’t we just be done with it
and erect a gigantic sign on our planet that proclaims:
‘Home Of The Shills’.”                                       (Aren't you curious what world that is?)
 
 

At the show sponsored by City Technology Inc. and University Medical Centre
a sincere seeming gentleman after appearing to have seriously examined the brain
on display at one booth, said to the attendant:
“When you finally have these things perfected, call me.”
      “May I inquire as to the specific location of this alleged show?  –
        and is there even the slightest possibility that it took place in that
        astrodome style covering surrounding our cranial based organ?   Hum-m-m?”
Metaphors left out in the hot texas sun do tend to run.
      “You see Mabel, I’ve been saying that for years: the trouble with metaphors is that
        they run on, and on, and on, and on, whereas physical reality says what it
        has to say  –  slaps you on the back  [or in the face as the case may be]
        then, quick-as-you-please  is outta there, and on its way to the next customer.”
“Oh Herbert  –   you’re so.....so.....oh, I don’t know.....just so.”
This concludes another episode in the long running battle [sorry, script error] in the long running romance between: you and you (or more precisely):
between the conscious part of your brain as it acts normally,
and its vague suspicion that it could do more (okay let’s drop the scripted façade):
its full, but embarrassing awareness that it should undoubtedly be able to
exert more influence over the rest of the brain than it presently does.
(P.S. This chapter in your personal life is only over when you
[that is: the conscious part of your brain] allow it to be:
What a title for a book such a life presents: Dead While Still Physically Upright.)
 
 
 

One man’s method is, at the very instant when the next thought is just about to
come out of his brain, to have the conscious part thereof stop it, by saying to itself: “That’s not me.”  It’s simple  –   it’s the truth  –   and it works.
    (“Is that anything like continually singing the national anthems of countries
       you don’t know?”
Turn that a few degrees sideways, and you’ve got it.)
The ultimate (and liberating) creativity of he who would awaken
is the abandonment of all that is not original.
     (“Hey  –   wait just a minute: look at what that would lead to  [in your head, that is].
 HA!  –  no thanks, not for me!       What kind of fool do you take me for!”)
      “Pa pa: when I grow up can I be taken?”

No matter what nationality your passport shows: everyone is by birth, schizophrenic.