more than talking, sort of like rambling
A world consists of a self, ideas, an environment, and objects in the environment. Objects are what background noise isn't, designated specifically. Objects aren't inanimate, they're people, and not all people - the people you choose to see as distinct non-stock-character individuals. Life is the interplay.
Ideas can't be stored long in a self, when the self is the author, or at least I can't store mine for long because I have a lot of them and they are mostly contradictory to eachother. But that doesn't mean that I value them any less. Ideas can't be stored in an environment, except maybe by writing them in books. I could very well write everything I think down, but I don't feel that compulsion like I do the one to share my ideas with people I think are real and distinct from the environment.
It's not really about needing people to remember my ideas about the world for me or even about needing people to remember me as a person -- immortality in that sense has never interested me -- it's about needing someone to know that I exist, now, and every moment. I need to be present somewhere else besides my own head...and I'm not particularly proud of this as it contradicts the idea of indepenence and self-contained-being I've held for so long.
I've spent a while being pissy about the fact that real people are hard to find, and I've spent a while being upset because my reality shrinks everytime I lose a friend. "I talk to a lot of people," I say, " but none of them are real. I could be talking to anyone." The empty feeling of conversation is only there because I'm not talking not to a person but to an entity of the environment, who is incapable of remembering anything I've said or appreciating anything that I'm saying as more than a function of their own environment. I treat many of the people I talk to like instances of the same person, and it's because I know that collective memory doesn't exist that I feel empty when I do.
On the bus today, I talked to a freshman girl I've talked to once in passing before (an empty conversation). Talking to her a second time, and being ridiculously silly with her, felt really good - I was friendly, not just talkative.
Talk to people more than once, enjoy doing it...make...friends?
Knowing people's names...that helps.
Why did I think that I couldn't make the environment into objects? I think it's just shyness.
Maybe.
Ideas can't be stored long in a self, when the self is the author, or at least I can't store mine for long because I have a lot of them and they are mostly contradictory to eachother. But that doesn't mean that I value them any less. Ideas can't be stored in an environment, except maybe by writing them in books. I could very well write everything I think down, but I don't feel that compulsion like I do the one to share my ideas with people I think are real and distinct from the environment.
It's not really about needing people to remember my ideas about the world for me or even about needing people to remember me as a person -- immortality in that sense has never interested me -- it's about needing someone to know that I exist, now, and every moment. I need to be present somewhere else besides my own head...and I'm not particularly proud of this as it contradicts the idea of indepenence and self-contained-being I've held for so long.
I've spent a while being pissy about the fact that real people are hard to find, and I've spent a while being upset because my reality shrinks everytime I lose a friend. "I talk to a lot of people," I say, " but none of them are real. I could be talking to anyone." The empty feeling of conversation is only there because I'm not talking not to a person but to an entity of the environment, who is incapable of remembering anything I've said or appreciating anything that I'm saying as more than a function of their own environment. I treat many of the people I talk to like instances of the same person, and it's because I know that collective memory doesn't exist that I feel empty when I do.
On the bus today, I talked to a freshman girl I've talked to once in passing before (an empty conversation). Talking to her a second time, and being ridiculously silly with her, felt really good - I was friendly, not just talkative.
Talk to people more than once, enjoy doing it...make...friends?
Knowing people's names...that helps.
Why did I think that I couldn't make the environment into objects? I think it's just shyness.
Maybe.