After reading the comment: “Opinion is knowledge in the making,” a man pondered: “So what does that make knowledge to be?”
City minds automatically know-when-to-stop  --   the rebel’s doesn’t,
which makes it the only one worth having (if you’re a rebel, that is).
    A creature who sometimes hangs about the city’s edges recently confided:
“Being around humans gives me the blues,”
and don’t you think it’s safe to assume he meant: ordinary humans  --
given that ordinary people give themselves the nervous-system-blues
by not being able to face up to what it is that makes them what they are.
    Opinions, feelings and beliefs are what life has ordinary humans use
where the certain man employs the abilities of his awakened consciousness.
In man’s inner life, same as in kitchen recipes:
There is a substitute available for everything.
(Pst!  -- the mark of the man-who-knows is that he will accept no substitutes.)

Amidst the constant exhortations to do so, the certain man alone can always be
relied on to: “Do his homework”  --
in that his paramount interest in life is in his home.

The body said: “We’re in this for the long haul,”
and the mind replied: “What’s a haul?” and the body said:
“Why ask me: you’re the one who invented language,” and the mind responded:
“It’s typical of a dumbass like you to weasel out of something
by shifting the focus of attention to someone else,” and the body huffed:
“How do you think we’ve been able to sustain our long haul thus far?!”
(And to itself civilization and all of its cultural facets sighed and mused:
“It’s good that all of us can have these little chats from time to time,” and everyone hearing this wondered exactly who life included in the term: “all of us”?!)

On a bench outside city library, a chap looked up from his book and said:
“Whenever I read some poet’s archetypical deathbed denunciation of life:
‘Farewell and good riddance to a world that was never my friend:
I now go to my real home,’
I always wonder on what planet they expect to be buried, and on whose menu
they think they’ll appear tomorrow.”
To be of standard human temperament is to be forever at least slightly angry at life (which more precisely is to say: angry about being alive).
Those of such routine wiring are also programmed to struggle with this sentiment:
an engagement they cannot win; only the anomalous few by recognizing
the full scope of this situation can  --  from it exit.

You might care to note that under routine conditions in the city:
the final-word on one thing is the first one on something else.
Without the steady sensation of continuity (actual or not is immaterial)
man’s cultural reality would come apart like a cheap, derailed train.
Fact: That which the mind conjures up and puts together  --  it alone can sustain.
Any organ can claim to have seen space aliens,
but none of them can keep up the pretense after that.
(Which is why priests deal in words, and not adrenaline or cortisone.)

One man notes: “Hearing musicians, writers and artists trying to describe how they accomplish their work is almost as interesting as hearing men explain how they think:
how they personally create the ideas that appear in their minds,
and issue from their mouths.”
(Is he being sarcastic?!)

There are two problems with standard attempts at self analysis:
there is no self, and thus analysis is not possible (not to mention not needed).

Says the city’s mayor: “Here, everyone needs a costume --   but PL-LEESE!  --
not one that even you can see through.”

A correspondent sends this Literary News.
“No one in their right mind writes their biography while sane.”

If the only ideas you have that others will pay attention to
are ones that make them angry, then your ideas are  --  aw, you can take it from here.

Never Codified Fact.
Men who brag on themselves are in need.

If it’s not funny, it’s not reality enough for the certain man’s interests.

An awakened man is nice  --
because it is the nice thing to do  --
and because it doesn’t cost him anything  --
indeed for him to not be would be prohibitively expensive.

Outlier Balance.
The more serious it is to the ordinary  --  the sillier it is to the certain man.

Everyone has another brain they never use  --  and rarely suspect;
only when a routine army is under grave or extraordinary attack
does it have fleeting awareness of the one, extraordinary way out;
but for them in everyday life: no calamity  --  no cognition (even of the momentary sort).

Conversation.
“I heard you were: sick/dying/dead;
that you had: left town/lost your mind/stopped trying to wake up?!?”
    “You can hear many things.”
“Yeah!  --  especially here in our head.”
    “Yeah!  --  tell me about it.”

One man kept only one full-time overcoat in his mind’s closet,
the one with the label that says: “With the possible exception of…”

Another guy says he can always tell when his thoughts are beginning to heat up, because it always coincides with a reversal in the polarity of his underwear.

The only ideas that interest the man wanting to awaken
are those that make his face light up.

The Certain Man’s Outré Intangible Economics.
If it doesn’t cost any more  --  it’s not worth any more.

If you don’t tell them what you eat  --  they can’t withhold your food.

A father said to a son:
“Most important to remember is: if you’re sick  --  don’t stay in bed,
and if you’re acting dazed  --  get up and move along.”

Snippet.
“What is the saddest thing you’ve ever heard?”
    “One man telling another one to: ‘Be happy.’”

Fashionably Well Ironed.
No matter what: The certain man presses on.

No one enjoys an awakened mind like the person who has it.

Reminiscers are people who know they have nothing mentally in front of them.
No matter what: The real deal man presses on.
 

Medical Post Script: Only people with undiagnosed mini strokes suffer from the delusion that the really serious stuff in life is by nature grave.