There is a genetic component to human energy;
the man-trying-to-get-to-the-bottom-of-things milks each cell for all it is worth.
(The internal outlier put the: D-stands-for-Dollars in DNA.)
   “What does it profit a man if he gains all the bustle and loses his own place?!”
For the few: Living in Bedlam can drive you crazy.
“I know that it’s supposed to be me doing all the endless yacking
and meaningless dreaming up there, but still!
I never pictured myself someday saying this, but I am really sick of you,
and what makes it so doubly infuriating is the fact that what is saying this
is a part of that you; in fact I can’t keep them apart;
if I could just stay steadfastly sick of you, everything (from my view) would improve;
but I’m like a firefighter whose clothes stay ablaze;
what a chickenshit position to be in!  (But at least I guess I can be thankful that I’m the only person on the planet so beset).”
Ordinary men just have rats and roaches.
“If the phone would just stop ringing I could pick up the receiver and stop the noise  –   if my hearing it ring was not the phone.”
Ordinary consciousness only has On and On buttons.
 
 

He who knows-what’s-going-on is like someone in the house of mirrors
who finds a rock when he needs one.
(Hint: if you’re ever in that position: Hitting the right mirror causes them all to shatter.)
 
 

On The Real Estate Front.
Says one man: “I will not be satisfied until I have made that special part of my consciousness into a gated-community.”
And from the media beat: another guy (apparently more attracted to the world
of reporting) says his goal is to turn the prized portion of his consciousness
into a personalized version of: I-Witness News.
 
 

Audio and visuals run automatically in consciousness;
listening and seeing for the nervous-system-rebel is however, a willful activity.
 
 

All ordinary people believe that others are (or should be)
interested in what interests them, and thus face constant disappointment;
the certain man is lucky in this regard:
he knows in advance that no one else is interested in what he is,
and is thus spared all manner of frustration and anguish.
 
 

One way to stifle your distress over not being awake
is in wondering whether specific other people are.
(“Ha ha!  My ship’s simply not here yet, but  –  Ha ha! –  look: his is sinking.”
     Now: don’t you feel better.
“As a matter of fact  --  I do.”)
 
 

In the skies of another galaxy is a gigantic flashing sign clearly visible from
millions of planets which announces: “Save 20 To 40 %  –   Save 20 To 40%”  –
and while no one is quite sure what it means,
no one wants to run the risk of making too big a deal about it.
(“You never know for sure who you’re fooling with in a situation like this,” says a spokesman
for one world.)
 
 

A young would-be philosopher said to an even younger sibling:
“If you did it  –   don’t suffer over it,”
overhearing this, his father drew him aside and clarified his thought for him:
“If you did it  –  if it was really YOU who did it  –  you CAN'T suffer over it:
that’s the whole point of walking out of prison.”
The rebel wouldn’t be disturbed if, when he picked up the phone, it was HIM on the line.
“Man! –  sometimes it’s really hard to make sense of all this,”
said the muse Mercury as he spread his self on the glass.
 
 

Where thought and memory are synonymous  –
there will you find normal consciousness.
 
 

Sunday In The Park.
A chap at speaker’s corner therein declared:
“While multiple matters in the physical world can be deadly-serious  –
there is nothing comparable in man’s special intangible one.   Sorry.”
(And several groups of preachers, political commentators and social critics shuffled away
muttering disappointedly to themselves.)
 
 

Conversation.
“If it weren’t for adjectives –  everything would be mostly alike.”
    “Hell, if it weren’t for words, you could say the same thing.”
(Some months later, when this tete-a-tete crossed the first guy’s mind
he suddenly thought: “No you couldn’t!”)
 
 

When thinking and memory are inseparable  –  there is no actual thinking going on.
   (“Come along baby, whole lotta nothin’ goin’ on…”)
 
 

A Fairy Tale.
Once upon a time there were some people who came close to starting a revolution,
but lost their nerve at the last moment and fled the scene,
fearing the potential consequences of what they had nearly undertaken.
After secreting themselves in a secluded spot and pondering possible present actions, they decided that what they now wanted to do was:
get really drunk,
cause a car wreck,
be arrested, condemned and thrown in jail,
be beaten and suffer brain damage, making it then impossible for them to be held responsible for what they’d done.
Consciousness and talk may not be able to literally compete with muscles and action, but they sure can clean up after them in man’s second reality.
 
 

Near its primary place of residence, one man’s consciousness left a ransom note for itself
demanding half a million in unmarked small thoughts.