I don’t go to sleep at night
because you haunt my dreams
and waking up to find you’re not here
is harder than it seems
See I’d rather stay awake at night
because one thing I know is true
that without my dreams of us
I’ll never be with you
So I don’t close my eyes at night
and I don’t go to sleep
because if I do
I’d have to admit defeat
So why don’t you try living
where you can’t face your dreams
where every minute gets harder
well that’s the way it feels
and it’s not that I can’t sleep
because that I can do
but if I close my eyes at night
then I am with you
and you may think that’s what I want
and to point you would be true
but the reason I don’t sleep at night
is all down to you
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I perceive consciousness in myself. My brain constructs a perceptual model of a mind that thinks this and that, feels this and that and is aware of this and that; the mind is attributed to my own location. That model provides an organized, coherent way for me to understand myself — to predict and help guide my behavior. It is not always accurate; it is woefully incomplete; but it is a useful model of myself.
This realization that consciousness is a perception is counterintuitive. We think of consciousness as something ghostly that inhabits an object. But according to this neuro-social theory, consciousness is a perception that is attributed to something. Like beauty, consciousness is in the eye of the beholder. Our brains actively paint consciousness onto ourselves and onto the objects around us.
Reader and fellow science enthusiast amanimal called…
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I don’t know what’s happened to me, nights and nights of silence.
All by myself. Trapped in a corner of doom, trapped in a corner of immense silence.
Can you not hear it?
From the lack of noise, my mind has made music out of my silence, where I’d listen to every note and musical flow.
My eyes never to open, never to see the light through the window, never to see the capturing moment of a child’s whisper
What have you done to me?
With the blink of an eye, you lifted me to high places to drop me to the pits of your misery, now look at me; I’m sitting in my own silence, not able to hear the sounds of my whispers or the fluttering wings of a butterfly.
The eyes cry teardrops that drop at the ends of your feet and still your mercy has bewildered me.
You act like you’re the happiest creature on earth but you’d like the dagger to be thrust into my wrists and veins until the blood pours out as such a fountain would. But you don’t have the power; you don’t have the power to even scratch my skin or even the power to see me cry blood from your sickening past.
Because you’ll eventually crumple down beneath my feet, and I’ll break out of the chains you have wrapped me with, and for once I’ll be able to hear you scream, and I’ll be able to hear my laughter roar above all that was created.
Because my silence only breaks when you speak.
Somebody once said that life is a dream.
from that moment onward I understood life.
life is a dream- sometime it’s wonderful and we try to hold on to it.
but sometimes it’s a nightmare we try to wake up from.
life is a dream- where no matter how hard we try to hold on to it, one day we’ll all eventually wake up to our deaths and destiny.
life isn’t reality- reality is the destiny of heaven and hell when you awaken.
when you die, it doesn’t mean you’re dead – it’s means you’ve awakened and when you’re in life- you’re not awake you’re simply sleeping.
life is a dream- make the most of it while it lasted.
Holding hands may seem like an innocent gesture, but they show more than a simple interlocking of fingers. Your hands are one of the most essential parts of your body: you build with them, feed with them, hold with them, touch with them, fight with them; they are the tools of the human body. To take a hold of another’s hand is to break from living individually. It is to link yourself to another being, to momentarily entwine your life with another’s, to promise, for a moment, that you need not face the world alone. More simple, more aesthetically naive than other forms of affection, i.e kissing, hugging, sexing.., the act of holding hands is often trivialized in its true implications.
The more you analyse a dream the less sense it makes, of course dreams hardly ever make sense, in fact dreams didn’t really exist; as such they were products of the mind itself, in a way. nothing to get hold of , to weigh, to measure, to record. you know you dream, you know you have a consciousness, but only because your mind says so. to look at it like that, the mind is a product of the mind.
I would say what makes us who we are is our neural activity: the messages passing back and forth between the brain’s nerve cells. cells and synapses and the chemical neurotransmitters that carry the information, when you say ‘just a bunch of cells’ don’t forget that there are more than one hundred billion neurons in the human brain. the patterns of thought and cognition and memory and, um, self-awareness and so on that go on inside your brain, and yours alone, are what make you the unique individual that you are.
The lessons i learnt were not
from teachers in a classroom,
but from my mother,
who taught me much more practical things
she taught me
how to muffle my screams
into pillows so that the
neighbors couldn’t hear
my yells of pain they would call child protective
then the heavy black woman
would find my step-father’s
Heroine stash (he was never good at hiding it)
when she asked to use the washroom.
then when my mother would return
from jail because she had
slapped my step-father across the face
when his friends had come over
and they seemed to think it was
acceptable to grab my ass,
almost like it was flattering
she would tell me to never get in relationships
with men i met at bars
who reminded me of my step-father
i was taught not to wear
short skirts because that gives men like my step-father
permission to pull me into an alleyway and rape me
and it gave the government permission
to tell me that i was ‘asking for it’