Exhaustion and Alcohol, I Blame Them

Do you think that your soul could be math?

When I think of all the cascading interrelated events and conditions that make a person whatever they may be, I wonder if the measure of your existence is like a contrail following you into the dark.  To believe that some version of yourself exists inverted or stretched through some multiversal history strikes me as hokum, but maybe right here, right in this reality, our souls are right in front of us.

Could you sit and compute yourself? I think you could, given time and help.  It is possible, though unlikely to happen, that a person could have the events of their life so well cataloged that they would be replicable.  If you were to do that in some analog to where we are now, would you have created a person? A stunted Hebrew Gollum?

What made the Abomination of Desolation so incredibly bad? Was it that a man assumed he was God enough to make a copy of himself or that he had cruelly left a life beating without soul?

So, when you take your magic words and your human finger and write your name across the forehead of the reality you know, are you lending your soul?

I think so.

This goes back to the event horizon of consciousness hypothesis from some months back. As the person’s brain loses all track of time and the last anoxic moments stretch forever, is that where reality fails as a medium? Here in Consensusland, we can all agree on both the existence of time and its measure,  but I have a feeling your brain believes in time like I believe in capital.  Sure it’s there in my pocket and (hypothetically) in my bank account, but I find it doubtful that it is the end-all infallible meter it is assumed to be.  Yesterday a bike inner tube was worth a lot more to me than a bottle of whiskey, but it would take approximately six inner tubes to add up to 750 ml of Knob Creek.

But if your brain senses itself running out of time, or its cousin oxygen, would its creation of a slow moving, never ending reality be a rough analog to sitting next to your flat tire and getting shit-hammered on bourbon?