Real Minds

What there is more real than the mind? Maybe the glass in front of me is a hallucination, maybe the bottle is produced by a evil god, maybe the entire pub is a dream, but this thinking process, this very mind that is subject of hallucinations, dreams and more, must be real.

Poor,poor Descartes.

Let's drink together. Follow me. The glass of this cup, this is real, because if I crash it on your skull, you'll hear a bang and the salty taste of blood dripping in your mouth. Let's roll out of this smelly room and look up!

Yes, the morning sun, that's real! After a night spent drinking and chatting nonsense, this warm is real. It's November and the sunny days in Autumn have hard-wired joy in my brain. In the summer, when you're a child, every day is a day to play outside. But when Autumn comes, it's too cold. So a warm, sunny day in Autumn, it's child play day. No matter how much your deranged, philosophical brain has been twisted by alcohol and arguments, those neurons know, yes they know that Autumn and Sun means Joy. What? Neurons don't speak, so don't have language? So it can't be a meaning?

....

It tastes salty, the blood, doesn't it? Let's keep on rolling. Smell the soil. This is real, the ground for your feet. Try to stand on your head, like an Hegelian for a Marxist. At first the blood is pumping to the head, can you feel the gravity? This is real. Your body is the resultant of millions of evolution, to design blood pumping the other way. But, hey! What a pleasure, the body adapts the new posture and it is winking to your trick. “Mate, the new headstand posture is quite cool, I like to play with gravity”.Discharge of endorphins confirm that. It's real.

Let's run.Run.Run.Run. Forget the cloths, this bourgeois prison for your legs and cock. Let's feel the warm of this November. And what is this? Oh my god! It is a park, where kids are playing. And they are staring two drunk philosophers, with only the sunny November to cover their willies. The kids and their parents. It's not what you think gentlemen. We are philosophers, it is a thought experiment, we are enjoying the sun,... it's hard-wired,... the joy...you know, ...when I was a child. A mother approached. A crispy slap on the check. It's not pain. Pain is a glass smashed on your forehead and in this state, barely noticeable.

No, my dear Descartes, it's not pain. It's shame. Can you feel it? Can you feel the blood coming on your checks? Your brain is pumping blood from your naked leg (aggravating the size of the freezing willy), it is concentrating memories and socio-cultural projections and it is giving you a psycho-lash embodied in your face. And my friend, this is more than real. The shame is real. Ask Joseph K..

Let's go back to our place. You were saying that minds are real. I think that the sun of November, is real. Children laughing and playing, are real. Blood is real. Shame is real. But minds? All that is surrounding us is a dream, a hallucination. Yes. Maybe. And the biggest illusion, the mind that is dragged in a world to call home. I see a brain and its narratives. I see blood and its planet. I see actors and their play.

All this vortex is dancing and laughing around a vacuum. This empty square, you call the most real place of the universe?

Real minds, that's nice. Only a drunk French could have thought such a flamboyant farce. Real minds, like if everything happening really count. So egocentric. Well, he's French. Real minds. Ah. I must tell Heraclitus. It'll make him laugh. For once.