Sometimes I think it’s more of a tormenting prison of thoughts. I don’t think because I want to, I think because I can’t stop thinking. Some problems are so burning and so important that I can’t stop thinking about them again and again. It’s half past 4 am.

One of the most problematic part of thinking is that you can’t have a consistent theory and opinion of such fundamental ideas as change or causality without also defining connected terms like minds or time. Reality is such a network of ideas, a map or a net of all thoughts that we can’t have singular and consistent ideas without context (by definition of consistency, actually). The right question is usually not “what is possible” but consider a solving method of the famous sudoku puzzles. By logical means we filter out the not-possible and then relations between the remaining possible solutions will eventually narrow down into reality (a solution in this case). This works out if enough parameters are given, what is maybe not the case in our human existence.

Lately I was reading up about tenseless theory of time, and especially after special relativity and recognizing the matter of light as an information source I don’t see why would a tensed theory be reasonable. I’d say that we are not spatial bodies or beings but tempo-spatial beings, our bodies extending in both spatial and temporal dimensions. Just as I doubt the consistency of the idea of a single consciousness, I also doubt the consistency of a single present moment we live in. Just as the mind can be a society (in Minskian terms), our present can be a “society of moments” as well. Whenever we consider present as a single moment, we need to ask (especially in a post-Einsteinian world) that whose present moment are we talking about? With properly fine quantization in mind, we need to consider which sense input or which part of our bodies we want to locate our present moment at.

Why don’t I have memories of my temporal body’s “future” parts?  We are such a thin slice of this temporal and spatial being, that some of our “very early” parts are not memories of us but memories of others. It could be the case that my memory of the future parts of my temporal body is actually my “current” thoughts and decisions.

Why am I this particular slice of this spatial-temporal body? Certain parts of reality is given like a seed of a generated world, this is also called the anthropic principle. There is no viewpoint without a point (a frame of reference), and although I think the subjectivity-objectivity distinction is fundamentally wrong, you could consider my opinion stating that “every viewpoint is a subjective viewpoint”, as objectivity is really just a pursuit to be compatible with every (subjective) views. This may sound strange, as compatibility usually have the connotations of something that extends the possibilities, but it really narrows down the options throughout all the possible views. I think the method of how we make up objectivity is the same as the B->A reduction of the series of time.

Standard

35 types of sadness

There is a sadness for every step, for every change.

There is the sadness of being less,
the weak plea and cry of of a worm.
There is the sadness of being too much,
the overflooding mourn of the Sun.
There is the sadness of the mirror,
being imprisoned in an epiphany.

There is the sadness of the flesh,
hammered into ashes by time.
There is the sadness of the blood,
kissing the walls that never say a word.
There is the sadness of the bone,
chiseled into twigs by the weight.

There is the sadness of the lust,
as the burning sheets are turning cold again.
There is the sadness of the child,
leaving the womb in a pool of tears.
There is the sadness of the man,
leaving dull and empty homes behind.
There is the sadness of the father,
as his own seed is choking his soul.

There is the sadness of life,
every stories coming to the same end.
There is the sadness of death,
being afraid of taking the first step.

There is the sadness of the forest,
dissolving in others’ bodies.
There is the sadness of the book,
always needing a reader.
There is the sadness of the king,
giving away yourself to be something more.
There is the sadness of the mother,
giving away yourself to be something less.

There is the sadness of the door,
never being space but boundary.
There is the sadness of the quill,
frozen in the eternal search of a goal.
There is the sadness of the key,
who can’t leave it’s lock behind.
There is the sadness of the paper,
imagining power it never really had.

There is the sadness of the road,
not having knowledge of it’s own length.
There is the sadness of the hand,
overwhelmed by all the work.
There is the sadness of the eyes,
overwhelmed by all the beauty.

There is the sadness of the bird,
reflecting on the illusion of freedom.
There is the sadness of the trees,
enduring pain until the very last moment.

There is the sadness of the sleep,
escaping into a shroud of one’s own mind.
There is the sadness of the morning,
irreversible rays of burning light.
There is the sadness of the night,
buried feelings burning under skin of a statue.
There is the sadness of the present,
grain of sand fleeting all the net of thin fingers.

There is the sadness of the flower,
feeling the grip of winter in the air.
There is the sadness of the hunger,
always on the move to the next meal.
There is the sadness of the water,
even the smallest peck of dust causing a ripple.
There is the sadness of the iron,
only being able to change through storms of flames.

There is the sadness of the healer,
fighting inevitable rot like Sisyphus of the body.
There is the sadness of the poet,
inspiring others though writing in the mud.

Standard

ilyen öregség jár nekünk
ezért szálltunk harcba apáink flottáival
elvékonyodtak csontjaink
beleejtettem magam ebbe az üres tóba

Elmész az ajtó előtt, motyogod ezt a szobát már csak emlékek tartják össze. Ez maradt neked, sérült vizekbe gázló folyosón csörtetés. Akár ha üres hüvelyeket potyogtatnának, alakok és kulcsok a lépcsőház kongó testében – keresnek. Pislákolnak pár éjszakán át, mielőtt végleg elalszanak. Akit tanítani kell a türelemre, az nem is érti a szót magát.

ilyen fiatalság ért el minket
mint tengerpartra ráfekvő víztakaró
elalvó nevetéseinket
kiszárította ez a vasárnap reggel

Standard