This kind of activity is never to be adequately known through just writings about it;
picture a situation wherein an author must accompany his writings and read them aloud to audiences due to his illegible handwriting;
for this kinda stuff to ultimately make sense to you it must be presented to you
by its author -- your consciousness.
 
 

Another Version Of: The Scene.
All of humanity, trapped in a swimming pool, people pushing, shoving, grabbing,
then releasing one another in a struggle to stay afloat and part of the group;
in a corner, a small number of people separated from the main mass,
putting no weight on one another nor causing each other distraction as they individually teach themselves to swim and navigate on their own in pursuit of the ultimate goal of abandoning the pool and entering the ocean -- before death.
 
 

How To Determine With Accuracy That You Are Famous.
You are famous when more people want to meet you than there are people
you want to meet.
 
 

It is not the length of a conversation but its intent.
 
 

Slickster's Tip.
Don't try to hustle a dead man.
    ("Okay thoughts -- did you hear that?")
 
 

The only maps proper for the few are ones which continually expand to greet understanding.
 
 

The few must have a common language and one not limited to words --
but built on their shared remarkable goal.
 
 

Certain ideas for certain men have power --
but only those which do not encourage dreams.
 
 

Leaving your natural-born nervous-system-I at the center of the mind's realm
will keep you forever a stranger to yourself;
you remain subject to a tyrant with an alias.
 
 

At man's ordinary mental level: nothing too drastic can be true and acceptable,
while for the few: only that which is too drastic, overly immoderate and radical
is sufficient.
 
 

The valuable is not disturbed by a closer look;
only the mundane and valueless fears scrutiny.
    ("Okay thoughts -- did you catch that one?!")
 
 

In a bar on another world, a galactic gallivanteer told a tale:
"I once found myself on a planet where the inhabitants worshiped a deity they called Baraskus, and while I was stopped in a village for a meal was mistaken for a
wandering wise man, and the chief asked me to address the people in a way that
would expand their understanding  --  and I agreed.
They gathered the next morning, and to help free them from their previously acquired ideas, I presented a commentary which I labeled: 'Baraskus Is Hate,'
wherein I offered commentary on the normally unnoticed complexity and connectedness of human existence.
Afterwards the chief informed me that such comments would not do
inasmuch as they were in violent conflict with the people's ancient beliefs,
so I said I would stay another night and do better tomorrow.
When the villagers had taken their seats the next day I delivered a message entitled:
'Baraskus Is Love,' but at its conclusion the headman was still disappointed saying that I had offered little new and instructive since they had heard that idea discussed many times before, so I agreed to do it again and promised that the upcoming lecture would be free from all such shortcomings.
Next day I spoke to the people on the subject:
'Baraskus Is Whatever Your Consciousness Imagines Him To Be,' but it too missed the mark according to the village elder who informed me that it hardly made sense
inasmuch as most of the local people were too poor to afford an imagination.
Well sir, I had about had enough, but told the chief I'd speak to them one more time
and that it would be an entirely different game altogether this go 'round.
After making sure I knew the fastest way out of town in preparation for a hasty departure, the next morning I stood before the assembled population of the village and after all had become silent (and I was ready to run) I loudly proclaimed:
'I AM Baraskus!' --  but before I could make a break for it, they leaped to their feet
and began shouting and clapping as they showered me with jewels
and fell prostrate before me,
and through the din I heard the chief clearly say: 'Now that's more like it.'
    Yes my friends, no doubt about it: Throughout this universe nothing is of more
interest to man than the Truth about his mental life and the sundry sacred beliefs
that spring therefrom.
Now -- whose turn to buy?"
 
 

A man pondered: "Why does some of what I hear make sense and seem meaningful
while other stuff I hear (which is presented with equal solemnity) doesn't?
Is it the stuff? -- is it me? -- or maybe the prevailing atmospheric pressure?" --
and as long as such men live, socrates presumably feels his death not otiose.
 
 

The ordinary want dead heroes and inaccessible ideas -- not living dangers.
 
 

The Light.
Though everyone starts off picturing otherwise: it is not a matter of one-big-flash,
but of endless small daily ones.
The would-be travelers who never move are those who await the colossal train,
while the ready-for-action ones man their own handcars.
 
 

When your mental act consists of one trick (be it political, religious or etc.)
wearisome it quickly becomes.
    ("Dammit thoughts! -- you better be listening to all this!")
 
 

To make the great journey a man must become an unusual kind of witness
to his own inner life.
 
 

The few see and understand the eternal incompleteness-of-everything;
their inner, unstated stance toward the singular life lived by man could thus be summed: "I could not agree more."
The reason that a man-who-understands-what's-going-on won't identify his self
is the futility of trying to describe a half-prepared meal, an unfinished puzzle,
a partially-materialized apparition.
 
 

One man's new motto: "Help stamp out prejudice - stop hating yourself."
(And quickly adds not to ask him how  -- that he's just responsible for
making up the slogans.)
 
 

If you tell your assumed would-be oppressors what you won't do -- they've got you.
("Heads up!  --  another incoming for thoughts!")
 
 

Regardless of how it looks to routine consciousnesses:
man is not at odds with Life (or as he likes to call it: Nature);
he but fulfills his natural role in the Magnus Vivus Machina,
even as his own tongue is made to swear he and Life are in perilous conflict.
It requires a man with many and uncommon eyes/I's to take in a drama wherein
one entity plays all the roles of patient, physician, the potions prescribed,
and also the medical critic;
such a feat is too much for those in the cheap seats to absorb.