Quotes About Consciousness

This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time

Pero si la realidad no es más que un conjuro, y no quieres realmente lo que crees que quieres... —Acerca su cara a mi cara y dice—: Si no tienes libre albedrío. No sabes qué sabes en realidad. Realmente no amas a quien solamente crees que amas. ¿Qué razones te quedan para vivir?

Everyone's in their own personal coma. What

Wie kommuniziert man am besten das Gefühl, tot zu sein … Ja, ich kenne das Wort kommunizieren. Ich bin tot, nicht geistesgestört.

Durante un instante la mamaíta había visto la montaña sin pensar en explotaciones madederas, pistas de esquí ni avalanchas, vida natural controlada, geología de placas tectónicas, microclimas, efecto sombra de lluvia ni lugares yin-yang. Había visto la montaña sin el marco del lenguaje. Sin la cárcel de las asociaciones. La había visto sin mirar a través de la lente de todo lo que sabía acerca de las montañas.

No matter how careful you are, there's going to be the sense you missed something, the collapsed feeling under your skin that you didn't experience it all. There's that fallen heart feeling that you rushed right through the moments where you should've been paying attention.

Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be. Every time you don't throw yourself down the stairs, that's a choice. Every time you don't crash your car, you reenlist.

But we forget so much when we're born he says. Being born, it's as if you go inside a building. You lock yourself inside a building with no windows to see out. And after you're inside any building long enough, you forget how the outside looked. Without a mirror, you'd forget your own face.

Wohl niemand tanzt, wenn er nüchtern ist, er müsste denn den Verstand verloren haben.

Why do you insist the universe is not a conscious intelligence, when it gave birth to conscious intelligences?

Nothing in life was ever clearly drawn, obviously just, or totally emotionally satisfying, but the moment-to-moment stuff of reality featured infinitely more complication, sleaze, struggle, true beauty, unfairness, profundity, passion, and depth of consciousness than she, in her frantic struggle to be somebody other than her unspectacular self, had been previously aware of. page 302

I don't want to sleep,' my mother said. 'I want -- for God's sake, I want to wake up.

but this is what I think: you only see what you expect to see. Your brain lets the rest go. Because life's tumult, with its infinite sounds and smells and signs, rushes around you like a river in flood: you can only take in, you can only grasp, so much.

This is where my sin sleeps. In this endless dream.

Do you ever suddenly find it strange to be yourself?

I sometimes think, said Jason, that the soul may be a state of mind.

Slowly, Adams put away the mento-cap, reached out an almost reluctant hand and snapped up a tumbler. Alice answered. "Send me in the Asher Sutton file.

There's no conscious thing on the face of the world that doesn't know dread more intimately than its own heartbeat.

His body and his mind went about their different businesses. The former, freed from conscious instruction, breathed, rolled, sweated, and digested. The latter went dreaming.

What did it matter, anyway, he thought, whether this was a real place or a dream? It felt real, and that was all that mattered.

It was that sleep itself—the act of closing the eyes and relinquishing control of her consciousness—was something she was temperamentally unsuited to.

Abaratians are very much about living in the moment; living life because that's what we've got, we've got today, we've got now, we've got being alive now and we have to be awake and alive in the moment and not asleep in our lives. And they would find the idea of sleeping through your life, of being bored - they would think that was very stupid - why would you be bored when there's so much to do and so much to see and so much to be?

A skin was nothing. Pigs had skins; snakes had skins. They were knitted of dead cells, shed and grown and shed again. But a name? That was a spell, which summoned memories.

He became aware (was it just his dream life, denied its span in sleepless nights, spreading into wakefulness?) of another world, hovering beyond or behind the facade of reality.