Stream of Consciousness
I have always juggled with the idea of writing about my personal life.

In general I am opposed on the grounds that I should reveal to much about my own personal drama and look weak.

Believe me, I have done it before.

But I also don't want to be impersonal.

I am a naturalist, I live my life, every moment observant of the collisions of causality that bind our existence.

I am hanging out with my roomate.

I just graduated college.

Our house is full of plants, undergoing photosynthesis with all the roaring vitality of a symphony.

But a real german symphony, with the glorious sound that the romantics would make when they yearned for utopia.

The sun is feeding them well today, with all of its atomic glory.

The Sun can be thought of as a forest of atom bombs, singing silently in the sky.

This atomic bomb forest has all the powers we have ever attributed to a God, big or little "g".

Yet it has no consciousness, like all celestial bodies, it moves only by the mindless will of gravity as it plays its role in at least 4 dimensions.

No, but around me there are nervous systems abounding, just as verdantly as the plants.

My roomate has a kid, she has better bones than me, they are flexible. She moves like a creature with rubber bones. The nervous system accommodates the potential of this machine. Like the plant it seeks energy, preferably in the form of the energy released from the breaking of bonds made when one consumes polysaccharides.

This reaction is called exothermic, in that it produces energy.

I am listening to the molecular patterns formed in the air, it sounds like Beethoven, which is what my computer tells me is playing.

My computer. My beloved computer.

Everyone should name their computer. My computer is named Excalibur, because she was pulled from a stone by me to make me a King.

My other computer is named Donkey. She is slow, stubborn, but can still carry a load.

These are machines.

Little, sleek, beautiful thinking machines.

Some day as we approximate the sublime aspects of our nervous system, these little machines may think as we do.

This is nature.

Beloved nature.

She dances cooly like a ballerina looking beyond you with nothing but the dance to her mind.

To see intelligence between the lines of vast emptiness that seperate us between other worlds, or intelligence between the lines in the synapse, or orbitals of atoms, is to shit all over this majesty.

It took me a long time to become pleased about the vast, but uncoscious, universe.

I used to need a mind there.

Then I realized that embracing life for its own sake was far more true. For me truth is like the flame that attracts the moth. It may kill us, but we must run to it.

I can not even define this madness that is love for the truth.

But for me the truth has been kind.

When you see that the only minds that nature makes are survivors of the subtle deletion war which is evolution.

These minds are so precious.

This vast cold universe, with its mindless electromagnetic tug of war in the valleys of gravity, rarely makes minds.

For the exponential millions of cubic miles of the universe we can see, the only minds like our own we can find are ours.

Our precious minds, which by the tide flow of synapses gives us the gift of kindness.

Humans are not alone in their ability for kindness.

The neurons of housepets like cats and dogs have a tendency towards kindess as well, given appropriate nurturing.

Kindness is natures gift to us, in us.

Our sentient minds make her dance of molecules give us the joy of happiness.

Happiness is produced in the limbic system. The sub-organ within the brain responsable is most likely the nucleus accumbens for its role in a brain circuit named casually "the reward pathway."

Its collisions like billiard balls in a gelatinous web beneath your skin which make you feel joy.

Deepest, most beautiful joy.

This is a good way to sit and see life in its tumble.