Ruminating about souls and metempsychosis i thought about consciousness. Much of what constitutes consciousness is nebulous . There is the corporeal physiognomy encased in the sheathe of integument and there is consciousness, composed of dreams, memories, ideas, thought processes which are both inherited and configured. There is the relational aspect of consciousness. So there is a vast amorphous concatenation of filaments of variegation which is the complexity of consciousness and the mortal frame in which they are entombed. How much then are our minds really ours or how proprietary our possession of our consciousness?
Even in a narcissistic space, i cogitated, with its attendant self enclosings a process of externalization is conspicuous. The self or consciousness bases its idea of itself based on certain mnemonics, mnemonics , disparate yet reassembled in fortuitous permutations. So, in a sense narcissism is giving a form, a shape to indeterminate masses of disembodied arabesques. And then, subsequently, falling in love with the form. Sort of like man being in god's image or as an equivalence man being enraptured in the mirror image.
Thus there are our frangible bodies and our overflowing consciousness. While a lone body may survive the cataclysm of solitariness through a quotidian immersion in the survivability of necessity consciousness requires interlocutors. Even the mirror is an interlocutor. So even at our most solitary we are schizoid, cleft, rent, communing with an idea of ourselves that emanates from but is not authentically us. And the authentic being, in many ways, an indeterminacy which time, with its attendant blueprints and conjunctions, congeals.
Since the interlocutor is ineluctable consciousness is a feathery, gossamer, floating, protean mass, both impalpable yet durable. Consciousness traverses temporality. The flow of consciousness is non linear and generalized. It is both a palpable concretization, embossed by the self and an etherealized abstraction, dispersed and attenuated across intersecting collective consciousnesses. Consciousness, with a butterfly's touch, perches and irradiates through a memory here, a dream there, an association here, a wistful commemoration there. Its fragmentation into coruscating shafts of polychromatic munificence refracts its constituents across time and space. It is passed down through temporality, reabsorbed, recomposed in a different variation. So that while the inexhaustible revivification and reconfigurations occur they hearken back to the self, the mortal frame from whence they issued and spread out. This being so, is physical, mortal death the irrevocable finality it is? Might we not, somehow, somewhere, anywhere, be living on.