The Cruelty of Limitations

I think my psychosis is gone. So now I ask again: How did I come to find myself in this physical world? – where my dreams have to be implemented through careful control, careful understanding, and reckless violence against the scarcity of time.

I don’t know why I am here, but I know that everyday life seems wrong. It seems like an utter waste of could-have-been. The times buying groceries, the same repetitive places, the same void that cannot be satiated. My probability density orbital is partly in the hum-drum boring human level and partly in the hungry-ghost realm if I am to map my location on a Dharmic cosmology.

Although not experienced myself, I am convinced that psychedelics disclose a sliver of the vast ocean of possible ways of being. When I practiced Vipassana and Metta meditation, I reached states of being far from what could be handled with the language that I understand.

After months of practice, I could no longer identify with the voice and words arising in mind. They appeared as helplessly as sensations in the body. Oh, and the body, the body eventually dissolved into more minute and ephemeral sensations without a clear shape in the field of consciousness. By applying Metta (the feeling of compassion) to these vanishing ephemera I was for short periods of time able to feel my body as something akin to pink-red raindrops of love. Perhaps the entire experience was a very hard and dedicated road to what can easily be achieved with MDMA. Although I would not be able to honestly compare these because I have not taken myself.

So if such wonderful experiences can be attained with meditation, why did I stop completely, just up and cut it out cold turkey? That’s because I felt myself slipping, slipping to a place of tranquil sleep. The depersonalization, which was the goal, could also be considered a mental illness in Western countries, and it certainly was affecting my intellectual and motivational capacity.

I was being carried through an experiential river of selfless aggregates (the relative ease of utter departure from “normal cognition” seems scary in hindsight) when at that time a thought decided to stop, and the counter-meditation intentional gravity was invoked. This re-anchoring from my journey far east was like floating and being unable to touch ground. I simply didn’t identify with my own “will” because it seemed like a tumbling, empty, self-contradicting leaf. I had trained to destroy the appropriation.

Nonetheless, I managed to atrophy those meditation neurons, descend from anatta and feel myself caught up in a selfing-mode again. In particular, as my thoughts regained attentional fame, one of the first thoughts that I remember was, “I will regret not pursuing Buddhahood, when I’m suffering 50 years from now.” Alas, the suffering caused by being in normal ego-mode didn’t take that long. Yet I’m still thankful for the anti-conceptual time investment I somehow managed to get myself into. I can’t even imagine how much worse those successive events would have been had I not spent those months practicing and building an airy buffer against psychological damage.

Throughout this entire trajectory the main problem with existence for me has been coping with the abstract “could-have-been” with the “why am I this, out of all possible things?” This question seems so central to my being that sometimes I entertain the notion that perhaps I’m not a truth-seeker at all, and was merely attempting to self-medicate when I downloaded solipsism and then open individualism. These intuitively seem like the most rational or perhaps palliative answers to the otherwise arbitrary, inexplicably random circumstance of being me – this boring, limited creature that will never get to experience the naked totality of light which only barely glints behind smoky dreams.

Schopenhauer suggested easing our burden by tolerating our fellow sufferers.

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Unfortunately I don’t believe Araceli Romero is a real person. The Youtube comments still don’t seem to come from real people. It makes me wonder if they were never real, and I simply hadn’t noticed, or if there was a fundamental change where I branched off to a different reality.

In any case, psychedelics and transhuman technologies still seem like the best way to either forget about, or begin to bridge our separation. …Remember, I’m the bad guy who thinks SEELE were the good guys. We should all become the same thing. Call it LCL, hedonium, or whatever. I despise the unsystematic quirks that people don’t want to be saved from.

5 thoughts on “The Cruelty of Limitations

    • I think all Youtube comments don’t map to real people typing them. This is similar to the way that a video game deals with graphics. The dichotomy is not whether she is a bot or not. Is the comment lacking an author with the same degree of complexity as myself or not? Given my updated assumptions about the reality I find myself in, applying Occam’s razor says that a comment is simpler than a comment + meat person typing comment + years of living a life as complex as my own.

      Whatever is running the simulation doesn’t intend that I perceive a bot, just a comment that sounds like what a conscious human would say.

      I don’t try to make sense of it through abstract reasoning anymore, there’s just the visceral feeling that the simulation is tailored to me (however imprecise and flawed.) The moon isn’t rendered when I’m not looking.

      Her purpose is the same as yours.

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      • Well, what you are essentiallysaying it that I, just like every comment on the internet, am just some function of a simulation thats is tailored specifically to you?
        What does that make of me? After we finish interacting should I just kill myself? Or live in hope to somehow, someday influence your life once more?

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      • I am currently at 70% simulation is true, 30% psychosis is to blame. If you are a person as complex as myself then you can vote in your favor by increasingly bridging the gap, i.e., passing the Turing Test evermore convincingly. But short of inter thalamic connections, certainty cannot be achieved.

        Forgive me if you are real. I will recognize you as if you were dead regardless. The act of believing in others has led to unbearable pain for me in the past. I had too much empathy and that was debilitating. The separation between self and other and the arbitrary uncertainty in life paths this inherently creates is too stressful.
        As far as killing yourself, I would recommend it if you can get away with it cleanly and relatively painlessly. I haven’t gotten the chance myself yet.

        Even if death doesn’t equal cessation, I suspect there’s something far simpler than this human mess awaiting. I also
        suspect that RetardedMongoloid will not feature much in my life anyway, but prove me wrong if you feel like it.

        Like

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