Chapter 5 (Cont.)
It's also possible that she's simply sitting here, in the bar counter. Minding no one's business. Enjoying her drink. And her internal monologue. I wonder how hers is like compared to mine? There's one thing that will mystify, no matter how much we know of a person. Hypothetically, if every minute detail. That's impossible. Even an identical twin could possibly claim to know every crooks and crabbies of his conjugate other. But if my some miracle, a person comes to know every detail about someone, whether through psychological rapport or some kind of consciousness hacking module. Even in that case, it would remain impossible to know how others glide through their hidden soliloquy, in their own ashen lanes. There's not just the matter of speed and intensities. Only constant is that: there's a lane. The idea of a lane. On which the bearer's thoughts pass in varying permutations. Sometimes they are on promenade. Sometimes running. Sometimes a storm. Seismic cracks. Beyond that idea of the lane and all the speeds and intensities, there's also the matter of the idea of lane having different contexts based on the bearer's mind. It's a given fact that everyone is different. That's not mystifying. It's the epistemic limit of knowing how the person's soul, not the neurotransmitters or hormone fluctuations, but the incalculable, unquantifiable and unprovable soul; the question is on the epistemic limit behind discerning how one's soul connect to their bodies. But the bearer of the soul does not need to be aware of its specific designs and descriptions in order to embark on the lane the soul has dripped over his internal world, coloured of unknowingly spilt palette. When he was a baby he didn't know about the specifics whatsoever. He was imitating others. Responding to only the immediate stimuli. Exhibiting traits of the most tangible emotions. Suddenly at one point, the point which varies dramatically from person to person, he is aware of the traits that comprise his being. And becomes aware of continually developing yet nonlinear personal history. The even more nonlinear process of remembrance. He doesn't realise the inscrutable epistemic and mnemonic vacuum from the time before functional consciousness. Yet it does not distract him from his identity at all. The memories are ingrained. Then he goes on to gather more memories and progressively through time, the memories, while doesn't regress entirely to the vacuum of childhood, but more associative than descriptive. A person who relinquishes more personal history to the tides of time does not necessarily know himself less. What do I know of this woman now as I am looking back on this specific incident 24 years later. Now I'm here, it's past 3AM, at Gauntville. Looking back on an 24 year old incident. My memories of on the surrounding events have become associative with some critical descriptions. For instance, there was indeed a fire on the way towards Les huits. But most of the details, apart from the meeting with the woman has become only spectrally tangible. The physicality of the details, of the streets and its people and my own wandering thoughts. At 27, I was in no less crisis than I am at now. Maybe it's only the circumstances that bears the most importance than the severity of the problem itself... By 27, my ideological crisis from college years had faded away and replaced with an existential one and it's the same that persists to this day. Over the years, I mustered control over it and was able to flourish in my career. Up until my resignation from Datamangle three months ago, I was one of the key people in cybernetics division of the corporation.
Funtitled #43
Kleptocratic Spectra II / Lumen Poachers Inc.