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Little faith


I don’t know you. I know a bunch of assumptions and labels and hopes and fears I project and assemble into the model of you I interact with. Or pretend to. It’s not as if I could incorporate you into my reality. I can’t even do that with me.

I don’t know how you experience love or time or pain or lemon-flavoured or red. But I think there really are those things. And that stripped even of the experiences there’s experience itself. Consciousness. That even when you let go all individual difference; all POV; there’s an irreducible subjectivity underlying lived reality. That it’s the same for all and therefore pointless to individuate. Compared to what? Unconsciousness? But I have no objective basis for the belief. I’ve never experienced objective consciousness. So I guess it’s a faith, no matter how real it feels. I think there’s ultimately a you that’s no different to me. Or anything else. That subject and object, cause and effect, are emergent and insufficient.

But even if I am you it doesn’t mean I know you. To know something is to possess it. You can’t own things. Not even yourself.

From → mysticism

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