From time to time it ails me how in this ephemeral form I will never reach the phantom of a potential eligible to humans, I will never come in contact with the zenith of capabilities set throughout an empty space of sifting stars. Although I may be a living and breathing character, I may never understand whether the world is an illusion or whether the abstract concept of illusion is a deceiving illusion in itself. Is life a paradox? Is the mind limitless or is it's purpose to keep us grounded as if it's gravity were one to anchor our figments of "reality?"
The melancholy subjects may be grazed upon yet something compels me to believe that the level of intelligence required to occupy the structure of such a concept may never be attainable by humanity; it may never be attainable by any organism with a functioning mind.
As a student of psychology, the information I gather concerning our brains leads me to relieve a sense of mortal control. Our fates, as the works of Freud and Piaget suggest, are deciphered and developed from a young age as our traits are formulated from our experiences. Our functions of our brains react to varying stimuli, which in turn precipitate reactions that we adapt to and believe are natural. I cannot comprehend how we aimlessly believe that we are the navigators of our own emotions and motor skills. The idea is extensive and absract, and exponentially theoretical, yet our brains: our mortal coil's nucleus, our strategy formulation, it all seems so trivial and constructed. If our brains are the ventriloquist, and our bodies the tender puppets, what do we control?
Our conscience is our friend isn't it? Yet it is a branch from the lobes of our brain, it is pioneered just as we are and it follows a criteria; it notifies us of our reactions. Indeed; it is the intercom system that propels our existence and distinguishes applicable experiences to enforce our survival.
What is survival? It is maintaining a functioning form and lineage through fabricating DNA and appropriate genomes.
It grants biological sustenances the ability to adapt and evolve to obtain a rich lineage. The cheetah can achieve speeds the human cannot, the chameleon can alter its hue to camouflage; the human cannot. The dedication of involuntary glands and particles that influence these adaptations to environments are what has provoked excellence in intelligent quotients and facetiously laced abstract reasoning into the human's conscience. As such humans, as biological creatures, as clusters of spastic atoms; we have the uncanny ability to process information exported and recorded by our dendrites; information, images and sounds that we may have never perceived or contacted. We have the inter-evoked dreamscape of our imagination with abilities we may never be exposed to or fully understand. The procreation of abstractions, the fabrications of ideal scenes and nomenclature, the mind is an endless realm. Coursing prior to the archaic "paradox," this imagination humans have constructed maybe just formulated within the mind of another galaxy of breathing organisms and spastic atoms, or perhaps, none at all.
The amygdala processes agitation, the occipital processes sight, the temporal lobe: hearing, and the parietal lobe: sensations. Yet, what processes reality? Are we really just puppets? Are our realities simply within other dreamscapes? Are our ephemeral existences coordinated without futile consent? Or, have we never existed to begin with?
