I think, therefore I’m annoying

I can’t write about ideas anymore. My voice becomes stiff and artificial. All the jargon, the complicated syntax, the dense references. Sentences stretching on and on. I wanted to write about living in a simulated reality, because I think it’s a stale bong rip of an idea promoted by detached fart huffing nerds, but after one paragraph I started to hate myself. I’m going for it anyway.

Simulation presupposes reality. A simulation is built into a prepositional structure. By this I mean that a simulation is always of something and for someone. You take away the reality of what is simulated and the reality of the act of simulating for someone or something and you lose simulation itself. I hope that makes sense. I despise not being clear and the frustration of trying to do this right now makes me want to punch a migrant.

It’s the same with consciousness. Sometimes people crawl so far up their own assholes that they think that consciousness is an illusion. What if maaaan….

But illusions presuppose consciousness. There can only be an illusion for a conscious agent in an act of perception. It make no sense to say that not only is a perceived object or experience an illusion, but the awareness of the experience is also an illusion. How can my consciousness of an illusion also be an illusion? To whom or to what is this illusion appearing? Another illusion? Not only am I not seeing things as they are, I’m not even seeing?

Consciousness can’t be an illusion. If I’m thinking that there is no such thing as thought, I’m still thinking. The very act of negating thought affirms its reality. This is basic Descartes, people.

After all, it must be true that my experience isn’t real and that my consciousness is an illusion. But that truth is only given to me through my consciousness. How could something false and unreal access the truth? An illusion recognizing itself as an illusion is also an illusion? I can imagine something that isn’t the case but I can’t imagine the very fact of my imagining.

I don’t think this has been helpful or enjoyable. My stomach is churning and I’ve had too much coffee. I’m irritable and don’t think I made whatever point I set out to make. How do people write about these things for a living? They must be smarter and have more patience.

I’m too dumb for this kind of talk nowadays.

Author: The Empty Subject

Born curmudgeon

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