Home > Foggy's Manifesto for Good Living, I'm being hard on myself > It’s turtles all the way down.

It’s turtles all the way down.

The deep-thinkers of cognitive science postulate that the only way to outflank the gnawing problem of the Homunculus (that’s the little guy pulling all the levers inside your head) and it’s infinite regression of nested Russian dolls as we tumble down a rabit hole of wondering if your Homunculus has an even smaller genie in his head, and then wondering about that little chap’s Homunculus, and so on into infinity, is to abandon entirely the conception of some kind of indivisible seat of conciousness within your underutilised brains and credit all your thoughts as being sentient and self-aware in themselves.

This raises interesting thoughts in paliative self-help for those mired in an existencial malaise.  If troubling, confusing thoughts rise up from the pit of your soul and undermine the essense of your being, just – like – think different thoughts or something.  Duh!

Futhermore, if – like me – you find that the collective assemblage of thoughts jostling through your waking hours seem to be set at subtle but infinitely annoying cross-purposes, simply revisualise your mind as less of a miracle of evolution and more of a moody pub full of cantankerous peasants whom have embraced surliness as a way of life.  We have to conclude that your mind, like mine, is simply not working properly, never will, and is in any event undoubtedly way past its warranty period.  Abandon conceits of sanity and welcome derangement and mental decline as you would an old drinking buddy.  Relax, put your feet up, and get royally bladdered.

Foggy out.

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