Our brain

The three pound lump of electric gelatin. It is the most advanced and mysterious substance in the known universe. What do you do with it?How far down the spiral of societal conditioning were you, when you settled on the “acceptable” mindset. The one responsible for success in this society? Did you even notice when it happened? You didn’t. You were too young.

In a book called Incognito, David Eagleman explains that there are as many neural connections in one single cubic centimeter of brain tissue, as there are stars in the milky way galaxy. An article on discovermagazine.com says there are a minimum of 100 trillion neural connections, or synapses in our brain. At least 1,000 times the number of stars in our galaxy.

How do we store the data that is, us? What does this data look like? I’ve only heard of these synapses’ singular characteristics. No imagination on the possible image or behavior of all of them as a whole. Maybe one day we’ll find the perfect combination of imaging techniques. Some electro-spectro-radio-thingamajigger that’ll give us the most accurate picture of the trillions upon trillions of connections happening every second. The isolated cloud of electrical connections dancing around.

Call me crazy.(as if you require an invitation) But I believe the data in our brains is stored as millions of interconnected whirlpools. A chain of swirls in constant motion. I think these whirlpools start forming inside the womb. Information flowing from the mother’s eyes and ears into the fetus’ brain. Continuously absorbing everything. I think genetics are only responsible for physical characteristics. Psychological ones are a product of their environment.

I believe our formation was entirely sculpted by our mother’s subconscious. Those psychological traits we couldn’t have possibly learned, painted by our mother’s memories. Put there so early, they embed themselves in the deepest cortex. These make up the first whirlpools.

The rest come as we pick up skills and experiences. Traditional neuroscience said the body sends signals to the brain when necessary. I believe that our 2 billion, or so, nerve endings are permanently in our brains. Swirling around with Information from our sex drive, heart, digestive system, etc.

A perfect example would be the shirt you have on. You don’t even feel it on you, do you? Do you feel the pants on the skin of your legs, every second of the day? Not likely. Is it only when you demand this information that the body FedExes it up to your brain at 268 mph. Conventional neuroscience would say so. That, only when you needs the information, does your body send the signal to your brain.

I don’t think so. I’m not denying the speed of the signal. I am calling into question the process. What gives me the right to contradict this? Maybe I’m just more in tune with my brain than you are with yours.(Does it burn?)

I believe these signals are mainstays. Swirling in and out, needed or not. When we do wonder what our shirt feels like, our brains doesn’t need to wait on the signal; it isolates it, already passing through.

When an area of the body experiences pain. The whirlpool becomes larger. Immediately gaining more of our conciousness. Psychological problems do the same. This is what I believe. Don’t know why. Might change my mind later.

Anyway!… WOW! I am really a crazy fuck! Oh well. Let’s soldier on.

And now, another stupid thing.

Will we take our memories to heaven?

Most would say, “Of course, muh g!” Well, not so fast, MUH DOG! (Sigh, I wanna kill my self.)

A anesthesiaweb.org article has a rather bleak and alarming discovery. The piece is called Anesthesia and the soul. It’s signed “anesthesiology”

Warning: if you check it out. He/She, I swear it could be a transvestite who wrote the fucking thing, #Woke. He/She ends the article at the big bold “WE HAVE NO SOUL.” The paragraph after is not part of the research, it’s them hocking their book. I’m joking, get your hustle on, Sir/madam. Get your hustle on.

She kind of takes forever trying to scientifically establish an equation to represent the concept of the theoretical soul. The ties between memory, the soul, and the self. Your soul is you, right? it’s your memories of who you are, your life, your entire personality, perspective, and experiences. You are not you, without your memories. Without the innumerable experiences that make up your life.

You take your memories with you to heaven, right? Wrong!

What if your memories lived and died with your brain? Watch as ten days go by, and you wake up swearing you had been asleep for one second. No blackness, no consciousness whatsoever. No dreaming. No thoughts. One hundred percent off. One hundred percent of the time.(Don’t quote me on that. Talk to her! she said it!)

Anesthesiologist use the medication responsible for this everyday, they call it Midazolam. The writer believes that this drug proves that there is no soul, and likely no afterlife. The Midazolam- killed the storm. It completely stopped the communication of the compartments. There was still neural activity within the compartments, but this put the brain on standby. What was found in the side effects of said silence? The most frightening answer to one of the ultimate questions.

What happens after we die?

They found that if they trick the system; turn the storm off without giving it the reason to shoot it’s hallucinogenic money shot. You go straight to non existence. I’ll let that sink in for a little bit. I don’t know if it’s real. I’m just a dude who is still undeterred from his faith.

A recent hypothesis about the afterlife, one which stems from scientific evidence and hallucinogenic drug aficionados. When you’re about to die from something, and your brain recognizes that fact. Say, you caught Frabicio Werdum outside a boomerang store, and he cracks your skull open. Your brain shoots you up with that final hit of DMT while you’re leaving.

While your skull is getting bashed in with bent wood. You’re hallucinating those pearly fucking gates. I think heaven might be an advanced species’ way of preparing you to make that last hit of dopamine a good one.

(Knocks at the door.)
Fuck… (steps)
hello.
We’re here to arrest you for being one of the most ignorant fucks in the history of wasted cumshots.

okay.

I might be one of the most hilariously insane retards in the history of time. Lol.

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