Monthly Archives: November 2015

The fear of not being good enough…

I don’t know where it comes from, but it comes quietlty, slipping in through the cracks like an insidious, pervasive mist, thin tendrils at first, barely discernible against the background clutter of the mind, gradually thickening, becoming more dense as the seconds tick by, as minute by minute the feelings of inadequacy deeper and spread, starting in one point of the thought process, but seeping moment by moment through every thought, every decision remembered until the questioning, the self doubt becomes everything, the only thing. And it hurts, physically, the thoughts and doubts and fears cause physical discomfort, the knot in the stomach, the tightness in the chest making each breath laboured, the rising tide of panic increasing my pulse and blood pressure. I feel my heart race as my mind is racing and I know that there is nothing I can do to prevent it, to soften the impact, to lesson the severity. All I can do is try to maintain my grip, hoping that my fingers are strong enough to cling to the precipice, knowing that if I fall there is no coming back, no salvation, no second chance. It is all or nothing, and that knowledge increases the pressure further yet, pushing my mind to punish itself as each decision is analysed, then over-analysied for meaning, for substance, for some sense of why my body is reacting in this way.

I know that sleep will elude me, that the precious rest so hard fought for will not come, that tomorrow will be much the same as today, but these thoughts don’t calm me, don”t comfort me. They serve to further compound my distress as the digits on the bedside clock show me just how badly I am dealing with life in generally and University life in articular. I question eveything, it’s in my nature to do so but in that questioning, in the deep analysis, do I risk isolating
mysef still  further, confusing myself. I know that I am not thinking rationally but what can I do about it? The idea that I might finally be happy with some aspect of my life seems anathema to me as my mind spirals in every tighter circles. I try, but once the black dog has settled down over me there is little I can do but wait it out and hope that it passes quickly…

Warping reality

Phase space, that place beyond imagining to those of us not blessed with a deep background in theoretical physics, where all possible states of a system are represented, where nothing is set until it is observed, where wave and particle co-exist in potentia until forced to resolve to be one or the other. In that sea of potentiality where all is fluid exists the creaton. To search for it is to misunderstand it’s nature, seek it and it resolves to cease to exist in this reality, not merely disappearing but never having existed at all, the time/space matrix reconfiguring as though the creaton had never existed and could never had existed. To hope to catch a glimpse of it is to misunderstand it’s nature to. Hope is an energy and energy is a form of observation just as seeking is. To hope is to acknowledge a possibility and acknowledging the possibility of catching a glimpse forces the creaton to resolve such that it has never and could never exist. Yet every day, millions of times a second across a million million words through a million million million million minds creatons are interacting with neurones and synapses, with brains of a googleplex of different configurations to trigger ideas and thoughts and dreams beyond the capacity of the recipient to understand.

A blinding flash on inspiration is no simple metaphor, it is the minds perception of the interaction between the creaton and the receptors in the brain, receptors that can not possible have developed since there is no possible way that minds could know what shape and form the creaton will take. it doesn’t adapt or change as it has no structure to change, it has no existence in any sense that makes sense, yet it is responsible for every act of beauty, every moment of horror, every choice, every work of literature, of music, of art. Without it no species anywhere would have moved beyond the base animal urges common to all life, without it there would be no driving force to be better, to even understand a concept of better. To try to rationalise any of this is to misunderstand the nature of the multiverse. To try to seek a higher purpose or divine creator is to collapse the probability matrix such that any such evidence will not only cease to exist but will never have existed. There is no creator, there is only the creaton. A particle that is not a particle, a wave that is not a wave, an energy that is not subject to entropy, a force that has no place in a rational reality.

Rely on it at your peril, call on it to your cost, but act as though it doesn’t exist, act as though the creative process is simply that, a process, and strange and magical things happen, strange ideas spring as if from nowhere, as though they had a life of their own, and they do, or perhaps they don’t. That’s the terrible beauty of the creaton, the source of everything that differentiates us from mundane life, that elevates us above the nature of the beast. The creaton is everything, and it is also nothing….