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often referred to as 'physical.' (Or: let's get physical.)
It's possible for an organism to be born without the instinct to eat. It will part its mother host, not get hungry, never feel the urge to shove alike matter into its multi-purpose face-hole, and die without propagating its genes. Fatal mutations are far more common than the kind that provide organisms with new adaptations to their environments.
It's possible for other populations of single-celled organisms to thrive within and even outcompete the cells of our bodies for their own resources. (A disease.) It's possible for an organism to feed off of the acquisitions of another organism, often magnitudes much larger, in such small amounts that the latter organism is never aware of the fact. (A parasite.) It's possible for a cell to have its genes -- the maintained double-helical copies of protein-arranging sequences -- hijacked by the injection of the single-helical genes encased inside of a patterned coat of proteins, one that is a living example of the gray areas between our traditional conceptions of life and nonlife, of animism and inanimism. (A virus.) It's possible for the development of an organism's protein-arranging sequences to be interrupted in ways that manifest into something that gets called a disorder.
The closer we look at even rocks, it seems that everything is animate. Atoms move, vibrating the patterns that they comprise, and so on deeper into the realm of the sub-atomic. The gradient doesn't seem to end. Everything seems alive.
At the more complicated ends of the gradient we see the animism actually compete with itself over its own constituents. (Life.) Swarms of protein sequences colliding with each other and wiping each other out for respective prominence. Sometimes wiping themselves out in the process, revealing some hidden inter-dependency. A gigantic mess of trial and error that produces both horror and wonder in equal parts, forever imploding its own accomplishments because something else is always possible.
It's possible for an organism to be born without the instinct to eat. It will part its mother host, not get hungry, never feel the urge to shove alike matter into its multi-purpose face-hole, and die without propagating its genes. Fatal mutations are far more common than the kind that provide organisms with new adaptations to their environments.
It's possible for other populations of single-celled organisms to thrive within and even outcompete the cells of our bodies for their own resources. (A disease.) It's possible for an organism to feed off of the acquisitions of another organism, often magnitudes much larger, in such small amounts that the latter organism is never aware of the fact. (A parasite.) It's possible for a cell to have its genes -- the maintained double-helical copies of protein-arranging sequences -- hijacked by the injection of the single-helical genes encased inside of a patterned coat of proteins, one that is a living example of the gray areas between our traditional conceptions of life and nonlife, of animism and inanimism. (A virus.) It's possible for the development of an organism's protein-arranging sequences to be interrupted in ways that manifest into something that gets called a disorder.
The closer we look at even rocks, it seems that everything is animate. Atoms move, vibrating the patterns that they comprise, and so on deeper into the realm of the sub-atomic. The gradient doesn't seem to end. Everything seems alive.
At the more complicated ends of the gradient we see the animism actually compete with itself over its own constituents. (Life.) Swarms of protein sequences colliding with each other and wiping each other out for respective prominence. Sometimes wiping themselves out in the process, revealing some hidden inter-dependency. A gigantic mess of trial and error that produces both horror and wonder in equal parts, forever imploding its own accomplishments because something else is always possible.
The Distance
There was something unmanagingly deep about the way my dog sighed. The way he gave me a sidelong glance before doing so. The way he seemed to contemplate as I talked on the phone, knowing that he’d never understand. The way he perked and heaved himself up and bumbled over to me anyway when called, unquestioning in his trust.
That trust was total. It was earned by witnessing me – something so obviously, staggeringly capable – choosing to be gentle. That sigh communicated a distance between us vaster than the stars.
woah
>be god
>be lonely
>meditate eternally as the entirety of everything all the time
>repeatedly try to fall asleep but keep waking up as life
>see yourself from the eyes of countless organisms
>woah
Delusion Machine
"Hydrogen is a light, odorless gas which, given enough time, turns into people." - Edward R Harrison
We are pieces in an unbroken chain that goes back to a scattered cloud of hydrogen, and the unthinkable amount of solar generations hence, each one a dice roll that peeked at our inevitability. For as sure as we exist to say so, we were in fact inevitable. It was only a matter of time.
And even before hydrogen. The quarks, the gluons. The tethers of energetic forces piecing themselves together from a voidless void perpetually filling itself with the only patterns capable of being patterns at all. An infinitude of pure potentiality.
We're no
Galactic Prime
I'm Galactic Prime, number-ornate, dust-woven thermodynamicism incarnate. Bathed in radiation and wrapped up in garments. I see the nest of the hornet and wonder what God meant.
Words come out of my brain seemingly pre-ordained, a matrix of matter combining matters that make the rain feel phatter and fatten the lessons that implode anyway as each new day I am forced to realign my ideals with the actual, factual mess of this consciousness.
Energy spires into wells, conspires into cells, feels its way through the dark until the parts of it that survive the cannon-fodding of its own hapless nodding manage to thrive.
It's doing all of this to
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