Dark Matter Mind

Lately, I’ve found myself returning to the idea of life’s iterations, those shapeshifting phases of existence that we experience as we move through time. It’s a concept that tugs at the edges of both philosophy and intuition. Do these iterations hold meaning, or is it simply an instinctual, egotistical emotion that makes us believe they must? It’s as though we instinctively position life’s lessons, its temptations, grief, joy, heartbreak, successes, and failures, as if they were carefully placed trail markers meant to guide us to some greater understanding. But is this belief in universal “lessons” a tool we use to stay sane, or is there some truth to it?

I can’t help but marvel at how intrinsic this sense of meaning feels. Without it, life seems absurd, random and chaotic in ways that almost defy comprehension. And yet, the absurdity itself might hold some deeper truth. Could it be that life doesn’t have to mean anything in the cosmic sense but still impacts us and the world in ways that ripple infinitely? This paradox, that nothing matters in the grand scheme while simultaneously everything matters deeply, has a gravitational pull. Each life, no matter how small it seems, has the power to alter countless others, setting off an endless chain of effects that stretch far beyond what we can imagine.

If none of it holds meaning, if the threads of our many lives are untethered to any purpose, then where do we make space for the collective subconscious? Surely that, too, would unravel, leaving us stranded as isolated dots in an empty expanse. And yet, the idea of connection feels as natural as breath. A friend of mine recently challenged the famous assertion of René Descartes: “I think, therefore I am.” He proposed a different lens: “I feel, therefore I am.” It struck me as undeniably true. Thought is abstract; it can deceive, wander, or remain distant. But feeling? Feeling roots us in existence. It ties us to the past, present, future, to ourselves, and to others in ways thought alone never could.

Our emotions are so profound and consuming, they shape who we are. They become etched into our bones, influencing how we interact with others and how the world perceives us. Were we emotionless beings, purely logical like the Vulcans of science fiction, perhaps we would view life as nothing more than a series of calculations to optimize and advance. But we are not Vulcan. We are human, and we feel. We feel joy so blinding that it takes our breath away. We feel grief so deep it feels like drowning. We feel heartbreak, triumph, despair, and most importantly, love. These emotions sculpt us. They serve as a compass, pointing us toward the meaning we crave, even if that meaning remains elusive.

I find myself drawn to the idea that these feelings are more than just personal experiences. They seem to act as threads connecting us to something larger, the collective consciousness, perhaps, or the shared essence of humanity. This interconnectedness stretches not only across relationships with others but also across the iterations of our own lives. There’s something deeply primal, almost tribal, about the way we instinctively sense who we’ve been before and who we are now. It’s as if the echoes of past iterations hum faintly in the background of our current lives, shaping us in ways we can’t fully articulate.

In each iteration of life, I feel myself becoming more attuned to this collective knowing. The connections become clearer, more tangible, as if I’m slowly piecing together a puzzle that spans lifetimes. These moments of clarity aren’t always logical or rational; they’re visceral, felt in the unconscious rather than understood in the mind. It’s a sensation of being rooted in something ancient and enduring, something that transcends the fleeting nature of any single life.

And yet, this awareness feels from a neatly wrapped answer to life’s questions. It’s not a revelation that resolves everything or points to a definitive purpose. Instead, it feels like an evolving understanding, a slow and steady deepening of connection. Perhaps that’s the ultimate “lesson,” if we can call it that: not to find meaning in the sense of an end goal, but to embrace the feeling of interconnectedness itself. To recognize that our emotions, our experiences, and our relationships are all part of a larger, intricate web that defies simple explanations.

So, I wonder: what does it mean to truly live within this awareness? To feel the weight of our emotions and experiences not as isolated events but as threads of existence? Maybe the answer isn’t something we can articulate but something we can only feel, a guttural understanding that resonates in the core of who we are.

Life’s iterations, then, are not a linear journey toward some final destination. They are cyclical, spiraling through time, each one adding depth to our understanding of the collective. They are the markers of who we’ve been and who we are becoming, guiding us not with clear instructions but with the quiet, persistent pull of feeling. And maybe, that is enough.