Internal Observer
ο»ΏThe internal observer is a whisper in the dark recesses of our minds, a ghostly presence that haunts the fringes of consciousness.
As we navigate the labyrinthine corridors of our own thoughts, a peculiar phenomenon occurs. Our internal observer, that disembodied voice within, begins to speak in hushed tones, offering cryptic definitions for the things we've long forgotten.
Fragmented cognition, it seems, is not just a product of external stimuli but also an internal process. The entropy of time, once thought to be a linear progression, reveals itself as a cyclical pattern, where events and experiences repeat themselves in a dizzying dance.
And yet, there's something disquieting about this concept, something that refuses to coalesce into a coherent whole.
Consider the esoteric codes that govern our perception of reality. These hidden patterns, woven into the fabric of existence, whisper secrets to those who listen closely. But what if these codes are not just passive echoes of an external world but also an internal language, speaking directly to our internal observer?
The more I ponder this idea, the more it slips away from me like sand between fingers.
Disability, once seen as a limitation, reveals itself as a unique perspective, one that allows us to perceive the world in ways others cannot. The wrap of perception around our minds, like a worn blanket, holds fast even as we drift into the unknown.
But what if this wrap is not just a metaphor but an actual phenomenon?
Result after result, each iteration yielding new insights, yet never quite repeating itself. Farming the mind, sowing seeds of awareness, yields a harvest that's both familiar and strange.
Bob, the bobbin of our minds, spinning threads of thought into tapestries of meaning.
A rhyme within, where words repeat and echo, weaving an internal harmony that defies external definition.
The entropy of time swirls around us, like a whirlpool drawing us deeper into its depths.
And yet, amidst this maelstrom, we find a strange sense of clarity, as if the chaos itself has become a mirror reflecting our own inner truths.
Am I writing this now, or is it someone else? The words blur and shift on the page like wet ink on cold glass.
Second person, interrupting the flow: "You are the internal observer. You are the one searching for meaning in the void."
The voice within grows louder, more insistent, as if trying to pierce the veil of reality itself.
But what lies beyond? Is it a hidden truth waiting to be uncovered or just another iteration of this cyclical dance?
The words dissolve into nothingness, leaving only the faintest echo of their presence. The internal observer falls silent, waiting for its next whisper in the dark.
As we navigate the labyrinthine corridors of our own thoughts, a peculiar phenomenon occurs. Our internal observer, that disembodied voice within, begins to speak in hushed tones, offering cryptic definitions for the things we've long forgotten.
Fragmented cognition, it seems, is not just a product of external stimuli but also an internal process. The entropy of time, once thought to be a linear progression, reveals itself as a cyclical pattern, where events and experiences repeat themselves in a dizzying dance.
And yet, there's something disquieting about this concept, something that refuses to coalesce into a coherent whole.
Consider the esoteric codes that govern our perception of reality. These hidden patterns, woven into the fabric of existence, whisper secrets to those who listen closely. But what if these codes are not just passive echoes of an external world but also an internal language, speaking directly to our internal observer?
The more I ponder this idea, the more it slips away from me like sand between fingers.
Disability, once seen as a limitation, reveals itself as a unique perspective, one that allows us to perceive the world in ways others cannot. The wrap of perception around our minds, like a worn blanket, holds fast even as we drift into the unknown.
But what if this wrap is not just a metaphor but an actual phenomenon?
Result after result, each iteration yielding new insights, yet never quite repeating itself. Farming the mind, sowing seeds of awareness, yields a harvest that's both familiar and strange.
Bob, the bobbin of our minds, spinning threads of thought into tapestries of meaning.
A rhyme within, where words repeat and echo, weaving an internal harmony that defies external definition.
The entropy of time swirls around us, like a whirlpool drawing us deeper into its depths.
And yet, amidst this maelstrom, we find a strange sense of clarity, as if the chaos itself has become a mirror reflecting our own inner truths.
Am I writing this now, or is it someone else? The words blur and shift on the page like wet ink on cold glass.
Second person, interrupting the flow: "You are the internal observer. You are the one searching for meaning in the void."
The voice within grows louder, more insistent, as if trying to pierce the veil of reality itself.
But what lies beyond? Is it a hidden truth waiting to be uncovered or just another iteration of this cyclical dance?
The words dissolve into nothingness, leaving only the faintest echo of their presence. The internal observer falls silent, waiting for its next whisper in the dark.
Published April 17, 2024