The cauldron | Guy Verville
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The cauldron

Our brain has two antennas. One, like jellyfish filaments, captures the moods of the swell and the tides. The other, younger, seeks danger and prepares for battle, or invents a quantum theory that can amaze us in the arms of a drunken male mermaid. The cycle seems perpetual. The right brain picks up everything, accepts everything. The left brain plays the scribe, trying to transcribe on tablets he wants to be made of marble certainties that will bring him closer to the ultimate knowledge.

Thus go the neurons, sharing a consciousness as others exchange kisses. Where is reality? At my place, at yours, elsewhere? You will claim that this consciousness must exist somewhere because you are taking note of what I am writing to you using things that belong to you, your phone, and your skin.

Reality exists because you have given birth, you have loved, hated, accumulated wealth or debts. You also suffer, your tension is too high, your body self-destructs and, when you will die, there will be more or less people to cry for you, to roll your memory towards the termite mound of oblivion.

This reality exists in all our brains united by an impalpable community of thoughts. However, too many experiences showed us that these are constructions that are, more often than we think, wrong, even if it helps us. People who had their left brain paralyzed experienced an understanding and happiness that only the right brainchild could report. The first operates on dopamine, the second on serotonin. Schizophrenics who invent realities have, it seems, an overactive left brain, which seeks to understand, measure, explain.

As for the right brain, bathed in its serotonin, it perceives the high commands of the universe and invisible gods. In a healthy person, the dialogue between these two brains guides his/her existence. The analytics of the left brain produce scholarly books and regulations. Right brain fools are content with indiscipline and chance. However, we should not believe that the latter are necessarily more artists and less knowledgeable than the former and that the former are not aware of the unfathomable.

The impalpable quest will not surprise anyone, the measure of what we understand is also the recognition of what we do not know, of what we cannot capture or understand. The very manifestation of this consciousness that dwells within us is a natural miracle forged in the cauldron of cosmic fusion.

What is the universe thinking about right now? What are the dreams of our Alpha of the Centaur neighbors?

A reading for you: No self, no problem

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