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PSYCHEDELIA – OPENING THE THIRD EYE – MEETING THE MACHINE ELVES

OPENING THE THIRD EYE

Most of us have heard fairytales or folk stories about the third eye – evil eye – the psychic transcendent eye – it has many epithets. All these stories strike at a demonstrable biochemical truth.

The third eye is a remnant of our lizard brain, manifest in modern humans as the pineal gland. The pineal is the regulator of dreams and recent research links it to the production of natural dimethyltryptamine. Psilocybin is another.

Opening the third or pineal eye (e.g. taking a D.M.T. trip) may not be precisely creating a portal to another galaxy – or any phenomenon that defies the laws of physics – but it is opening portals into regions of the mind impossible to reach otherwise.

It’s a transcending experience and integral to the transcendental revelation is that most fascinating part of the psychedelic trip: the encounter with alien intelligences that are apparently conscious and – most important – can’t be easily explained as a mere drug-induced hallucination.

It’s the meeting with aliens we’ll be trying to explain over the course of this article. Almost everyone who’s tripped has a version of the encounter. It becomes an obsession for many, a mesmerising ongoing conversation spread across numerous separate trips that’s so emotionally supercharged it’s often quite literally life-altering.

PERSONALITY AND ALIENS

Personality is the iceberg tip of a multidimensional internal universe of the mind. The conscious tip doesn’t know much about what’s happening in the exponentially larger elsemind but psychedelic excitation – like a D.M.T. trip – brings tip and base into profound contact. Temporarily. Too ubiquitous to ignore, psychonauts report meeting intelligent aliens – distinct autonomous conscious intelligences. 100% real.

It’s not an illusion.

The trip-induced communion is authentic and the familiarity most feel is not misplaced.

Psilocybin, whichever its ingestion mechanism, sourced, creates certain psychotropic conditions. These don’t generally occur in sober daily life.

The psychedelic communion with “alien” intelligence is authentic.

THE MIND PAINTS SYMBOLS IN SENSES

The sights and sounds and sensations of the psychic world are symbolic – usually metaphorical – but this isn’t the same as illusionary (though it’s often mistaken as such). Executive function needs to frame the reality it’s perceiving in some comprehensible way – the same method is used when dreaming, as we can all attest.

The intensity of the psychedelic experience demands powerful symbols and that’s exactly what we get. Fundamental truth is multi-layered and while habit makes it second nature to parse revelation into limbic experience – transcendent visuals for instance – the mind has imagination for its toolkit and a palette as diverse as all memory. The trip is therefore rarely just a humdrum version of the everyday familiar world.

The representation of our psychospace machine elves excites imagination to push the envelope but the brain can’t imagine in a vacuum. It has to use what it’s got and in the case of the psychedelic encounters, nowadays this means interstellar travel and aliens against the backdrop of the universe. Meditation transcending is subject to the same methodology.

It wouldn’t have always been thus.

Religious-minded meditators often see God and angels in heaven; and report their psychedelic encounters as angels and demons rather than aliens. Yoga practitioners perceive Atman and Buddhist mandala. African animists meet ancestral spirits. Amazonian ayahuaska shaman might speak of ghosts and nature-deities.

THE MACHINE ELVES

Sights, sounds and sensations of a psychic trip (whatever the catalyst) vary but the meta of the experience is common to all. None of the standard interpretations are factually correct, however, and perhaps that’s not too surprising.

The sensually-sparkling intelligences encounterd on a D.M.T. trip (or sometimes using transcendental meditation; or during pineal panic as in near death experiences) are real. The sentient entities are conscious and not merely an ephemeral dream-illusion. It would be better to call them by the name best fitting their metaphysical attributes: MACHINE ELVES.

Machine elves are autonomous shards of sentient intelligence – fractals of consciousness – iterstions of identity – whose existence is played out entirely inside your brain’s enclosed altconscious.

But they are not you.

This enclosure shuts in the machine elves and, except during psychedelic pineal excitation, it’s an enclosure both ways, also beyond the reach of your brain’s dominant persona; that being you.

The machine elves, though confined to the pineal psychospace of your mind, were manifested, as you are, from the infinitely creative forces of homo sapiens Gaia. However many you meet, all have the same point of origin and – like you – share a common foetal ancestor. This may partly explain the familiarity felt when transcending into the pineal psychospace.

Let’s be clear about the alien interpretation, then: the machine elves exist inside your brain and nowhere else. There’s no physics-defying interstellar psychic travelling going on. The psychic universe is within your brain, not out among the stars.

The machine elves are of your brain, by your brain, for your brain. Real and quite the opposite of alien.

They are distinct networks of synopses and neurons and axioms, tangled into complex consciousness patterns. In essence the machine elves are made of the same cell-stuff as you.

Many of the machine elves are sentient. Many may not be. These neurological entities are variously developed, depending on the history of the individual locus of identity. There’s a whole spectrum of psychic life: from fungus-like personality abortions to advanced living homunculi all the way to the conscious self-aware machine elves themselves.

HOMO SAPIENS INTELLIGENCE BLUEPRINT

The machine elves share your brain but their life (such as it is) is disarmed, shackled, ringfenced inside a separated space; exiled behind impenetrable neurological walls. Your life as the dominant paradigm and the lives of the machine elves unfold out of touch with one another. In physical space the machine elves may be close but in psychic space the distances are beyond traversing; even if relative locations could be known. Which they are not.

The absolute separation between “you” and the machine elves is the denouement of a Darwinian battle that’s carried out in the foetal and newborn period of our physical existence. It’s a survival of the fittest we’ve all fought and won; though like any of the early life struggles, it doesn’t carry over into memory. None of us remember being born and, except perhaps in sewing the seeds of childhood predisposition, we don’t remember the casualties of the brutal intelligence trial-and-error from which we emerged as most successful paradigm.

The conscious “you” – the person reading or listening to these words – was the sole advanced survivor of what must’ve been a defining civil war for brain-domination, fighting to the bitter end in the crucible of natural selection. It all happened before your earliest memory. The battle was winner takes all, contested entirely in your unfinished brain and the victorious alpha-identity (you) gained control of nascent executive function. This means no less than being entrusted with the burden of mind and body survival; of going forth and multiplying.

The proto-sentient fractals, from stone baby to autonomous rival – machine elves to be – were ultimately casualties of the neurological civil war. Some – early fatalities, less developed homunculi – would have been neatly recycled early by your brain. Others, more evolved, more capable, not yet evolved to blind self-preservation would have been mulched into your new and expanding subconscious.

The persona fractals – and you – are born from the same zygote fertilisation. Stone-baby neural fungus to feeling homunculus to the imprisoned self-aware machine elves, whatever the endpoint of their particular development before falling in the Darwinian survival war, every one of the prototype homo sapiens sentience are more than brothers and sisters. They’re all iterations of personality that may, under different conditions, have become you.

(This might explain why the “aliens” are so universally welcoming and attentive, when psilocybin allows you to visit.)

PRISONERS OF THE ALTCONSCIOUS VOID

What’s more, many of the most evolved, last to fall species of intelligent identity would not have succumbed passively to termination. Their self-awareness would have evolved to be stamped through with unyielding self-preservation (that you have in spades yourself) and, despite being beaten at the Darwinian coda, could only be subdued – not recycled or mulched, separated so the keys to the prefrontal cortex are controlled by the winning intelligence only.

There can be no sharing power in a human being, just as schizophrenia couldn’t have become the norm: ways of being that’re less effective at survival (in the outside world) go extinct. The nearly-you intelligences are therefore disconnected, ringfenced, imprisoned. No appeal. No hope of parole. Nature is, after all, a pragmatic path of least resistance force.

(Why is the survival of the fittest is the natural way to play out which experiment in alpha persona intelligence is best for taking the reigns. Natural selection is intelligent design results without the creator, using time and extinction as the most level playing field.)

(Brain is biochemical. There’s no blueprint for finished homo sapiens intelligence. There can only be a blueprint for the more basic algorithm that sets in motion the Darwinian trial and error natural selection. Like a mother nature doing machine learning and end result just as impenetrable…)

These fully-formed loci of sentient identity become the machine elves once they’ve been isolated and imprisoned out of the cooling settling mind-nursery maelstrom. Ghosts in the machine, in a sense, doomed to haunt an psychic space that’s like a pocket universe locked away in the lizard brain region of the brain.

Although they’ve been silenced and, except in cases of mental illness, securely locked away from interference with the dominance of your autonomy, these self-perpetuating homunculus tangles of neurons must be made to “live” – the most evolved will have gone far enough to be coded for decades of life – in a disconnected headspace that’s also stable enough not to traumatize machine elves to madness. Psychological breakdown in part of the overall system can be fatal to the sanity of the entire mental space; to be avoided as a core function of the homo sapiens blueprint.

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Meeting The Alt-Conscious Aliens In Your Brain

“Psychedelic excitation – as in a D.M.T. trip – brings us into contact with strange transcendent beings, sentient entities that seem independent, conscious and 100% real. But what are these machine elves? Are they real? Has DMT opened the ‘third eye’? Are we communicating with aliens, across the universe divide?”


Our conscious personality is the iceberg tip of a multidimensional internal universe. The tip can’t know much about what’s happening in the exponentially larger netherspace – except sometimes as vague intuitions and the rise and fall of emotion.
Psychedelic excitation – like a D.M.T. trip – brings tip and base into contact temporarily. It’s a profound connection and almost everyone has a similar experience. The trip brings us into contact with transcendent beings. We meet what seem to be intelligent aliens. According to our feeling of what’s right and what’s just an altered state, these beings are independent, conscious and 100% real.

But it’s all an illusion, isn’t it?

These aliens aren’t real creatures from the stars, are they?

It can’t be possible to psychedelic trip all the way to the multiverse Gaia, surely?

It’s not an illusion.

The trip-induced communion with alien intelligence is authentic, in a way. The familiarity most feel, when it happens, is not misplaced. Psilocybin, however it’s sourced, creates similar psychotropic conditions for anyone taking it and folk stories about the third eye – the psychic transcendent eye – strike at a biochemical truth.

The third eye is a remnant of our lizard brain, manifest in modern humans as the pineal gland. The pineal is the regulator of dreams and recent research links it to the production of natural dimethyltryptamine. Psilocybin is another.

Opening the third or pineal eye may not be creating a portal to another galaxy – or any phenomenon that defies the laws of physics – but it is opening portals into regions of the mind impossible to reach otherwise. It’s this revelation giving a route to the encounter with aliens.


The psychedelic communion with alien intelligence is authentic. Transcendent visuals are symbolic – usually metaphorical – but this isn’t the same as illusions. Fundamental truth is generally under many layers of easy to parse into limbic experience but the mind has imagination for its toolkit and a palette as diverse as all memory.

Nowadays this means the communion is presented as aliens in the universe. Religious minded meditators often see God and angels in heaven. Yoga practitioners perceive Atman and Buddhist mandala. African animists meet ancestral spirits. Amazonian ayahuaska shaman might speak to ghosts and dryads.

The sights and sounds vary but the meta of the encounter is common to all.

None of these concept embodiments are quite on point.

It would be more apt to call the strange entities. MACHINE ELVES.


In reality, the machine elves are autonomous shards of intelligence – fractals of sentient autonomy – whose existence is entirely inside your brain’s enclosed altconscious. Let’s be clear: inside your brain, nowhere else.

The machine elves are of your brain, by your brain. But they are not you. They are distinct networks of synopses and neurons and axioms, tangled into complex consciousness patterns. In essence the machine elves are made of the same cellstuff as you.

The machine elves are sentient though these neurological entities are variously developed, from personality abortions to living homunculi all the way to the scintillating machine elves themselves. In many cases the altconscious entities will inhabit your brain as long as you do, though without voice or agency. Indeed, their hold on existence is entirely dependant on you and how well you keep body and mind together.


The machine elves share your brain but their life (such as it is) is ringfenced inside a separated space, disarmed, shackled; exiled behind neurological walls. The absolute separation between “you” and the machine elves is the denouement of a ubiquitous Darwinian battle, a survival of the fittest we’ve all fought and won; though like all the other early life struggles, it doesn’t carry over into memory.

The conscious “you” – the person reading or listening to these words – was the sole survivor of a defining civil war for brain-domination, fought out in the crucible of natural selection before your earliest memory. The battle was winner takes all, contested entirely in your unfinished brain and the victorious alpha-identity (you) gained control of nascent executive function. This means command of mind and body, entrusted with the task of survival; going forth and multiplying.


The machine elves were not so lucky. All the proto-sentient fractals, from stone baby to autonomous rival, were ultimately casualties of neurological war. Some – early fatalities and less developed homunculi – were recycled early by your brain. Others, more evolved, more capable, were mulched into your rapidly expanding subconscious.

Many, however, didn’t succumb to termination. Their self-awareness had evolved to be ingrained with self-preservation and, though beaten, could only be subdued, separated from your dominant identity for life. No appeal. No hope of parole.

These fully-formed loci of sentient identity are the machine elves and though they have been silenced and (except in certain mental illness) locked out of interfering with your dominant autonomy, the homunculus tangle of neurons must “live” – a lifespan in decades – in a disconnected headspace. This might explain why the “aliens” are so universally welcoming and attentive, when psilocybin allows you to visit.


The persona fractals – and you – are born from the same zygote fertility. Homunculus to self-aware machine elves, whatever the endpoint of their particular development, these sentient prototypes are more than brothers and sisters. Though casualties on the Darwinian battlefield they are all iterations of personality that may, under different conditions, have become you.

Had a few variables of innumerable possible factors been slightly different it might have been you enclosed in the altconscious voidspace – alive but formless, adrift in an existence impossible to know.

For all we know the psilocybin not only lets the dominant personality travel into the void but brings the first limbic light and sound to the isolated machine elves. This would certainly be a catalyst for the flood of emotions the psychedelic encounter sets loose.


Welcome, then, to the prisoners of your mind. Not trapped in a physical body but in a timeless, non-spatial void created and buried by your brain.

Homunculus personae locked away in a deep altconscious lanaikea, sentient ouroborous playing out a concurrent existence, bound by the arrow of time but suspended non-physical, bizarre instances of fecund neurogenesis – like the living ocean-planet of Stanislav Lem’s Solaris – perpetually separated by your mind’s virtually infinite paraspace.

These heterogeneous altconscious homunculi are the losers in the Darwinian psyche, earlier attempts at intelligence, weaker personality experiments superseded by superior neurological offspring.

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Machine Elves and the Psychedelic Stone Babies

Psilocybin. D-methyltryptamine. Ayahuaska. Psychedelics. Ingesting Dreams. Transcending Spacetime. Alien Worlds. Encounters with Angels. Meeting the Machine Elves.

Psilocybin occurs naturally in Magic Mushrooms. The laboratory isolated the psychoactive chem, distilling it as Dimethyltryptamine or D.M.T. It’s often called the Spirit Molecule.

Psychedelics are fascinating. For decades – particularly since public research was abruptly curtailed by luddite governments of the 1960s – the pioneers of psilocybin have claimed it is Mother Nature’s most maligned tool. The psychonauts have consistently urged society to reconsider.

Since the turn of the millennia the movement has gained momentum. Documentaries and respected scientists back legalization and universities are carrying out research once again. Microdosing has become de rigeur in some parts of America, especially in high pressure creative fields.

Into the collective consciousness

A canon of psychedelic folklore, mixed in with Hindu and Buddhist spiritualism, has taken root in the collective consciousness. These are increasingly focused on key, ubiquitous experiences that seem to be shared by psychedelic pioneers and psychonauts of all colour and creed.

We polled a wide-spectrum group from the general public. Certain questions were repeated time and time again:

Is psilocybin a portal to strange new worlds beyond our own solar system? Are we meeting alien beings?

Is DMT a glimpse of the immortal afterlife? Can we use it to talk to God or maybe his angels?

Does psilocybin let us access the collective unconscious? What is consciousness? Are we all part of the living universal Gaia?

The so-called psychedelic experience – profound altered states of consciousness – meetings with transcendent intelligences – is it all just the drugs talking?

Does DMT unlock the secrets of the universe?

NO. The answer to every one of the questions above is NO.

But wait a moment. How can the answer be “no” and the psychedelic experience not be just the drugs talking? That’s contradictory. Isn’t it?

Let me tell you what’s happening here. It’ll be a five minute read. It could change your understanding of what it means to be a human. Be warned, though. The truth is strange and unsettling…


I want to tell a different story about the so-called called Spirit Molecule. Its implications are extreme and very real. Psilocybin is far more profound and eerie and unusual than clichés about interplanetary mentalism, chats with God, peepholes in heaven, or wise happy aliens…

Psilocybin isn’t aliens. Sorry. It’s not a gateway for your immortal soul to reach out to the quantum collective consciousness (or whatever).

It doesn’t teleport your mind to an encounter with omnisapient divine love.

Like many things in life, however, the truth is weirder and more disturbing than the colourful imaginings of our shaman and psychonaut speculations.

When you take D.M.T or mushrooms the familiarity, that beautiful sense of belonging communicated by strange shining beings who seemed to know everything about you, is real.

The D.M.T. trip takes you to what feels like another world. Which should be alien and frightening but instead it’s a safe land and you know profoundly you belong. It can be more real than anything or anywhere on Earth.

That sense of having come home is important, because you – ARE – home. Hold that truth. You are home but you haven’t travelled telepathically to get there.

The psychedelic space that’s accessed by the psilocybin trip isn’t external. It’s a space that’s entirely within your own brain. The travelling experienced by your liberated consciousness is not outward but inward, through the amygdala substrate barriers, into the limbic subconscious.

Some call the DMT a waking dream but the sensory experience is both too lucid and too visually original to be the mere rolodex rehash of the everyday dream state. It’s profound, fundamental and feels like a communion with knowledge far beyond the ordinary.

People mistakenly but understandably call DMT the spirit molecule and it’s this impression of transcending what you know makes DMT convince most they’re encountering something greater than themselves, like God or souls or aliens.

Time and space lose meaning in the interior psychoverse but consciousness persists. Awake. Alert. Your conscious awareness stays powerful and safe in an innerscape created – after all – by your own brain.

The psychoverse visuals and the sounds are usually awe-inspiring, the stuff dreams are made of – quite literally – but most striking is the realisation you’re not alone. This innerspace is populated and, consistently, most report their encounters with incredible sentient beings. It’s these we mistake for aliens.

Here we’re getting close to the truth of the DMT revelation.

What we encounter are indeed conscious, self-aware entities. These entities are alive, in a sense. Diverse too, and beautiful, intelligent, benign. Towards us, at least.

The conscious beings always feel familiar, so much like you yet alien too. The beings often know you – the real you – indescribably well. It’s a deeply affecting encounter and your feelings don’t lie. What’s wrong has been the explanation. Aliens. Spirits. Divine avatars.

Let’s try to explain this; for everyone, not just DMT users.

All of us contain this luminescent psychopaths.

All of us have aliens in our brain.

Except they’re not alien.

These brilliant entities that seem to have self-awareness, identity and feelings of their own – feelings about you – are personality fractals. These so-called aliens are independent distinct shards of consciousness, existing deep inside your brain. Most of us never meet them directly except through communions like the DMT trip.

The fractals live as long as you do. They share your brain but in the Darwinian survival of the fittest, the conscious “you” reading or listening to these words is the survivor, the winner, the alpha-identity dominating the cerebellum and all its executive function. The consciousness fractals have been silenced (except in certain damaged psyche) and must “live” alongside you in the unknown the anonymous depths.

These fractals – and you – are born from the same zygote fertility. More than brothers and sisters, you are meeting you.

Most of us have a notion of the physical limitations of our flesh and blood bodies, imperfect senses, imagination writ large but encased in a skull.

Welcome, then, to the prisoners of your mind. Not trapped in a physical body but in a timeless, non-spatial void created and buried by your brain. The fractals are the losers in the Darwinian psyche, earlier attempts at intelligence, weaker personality experiments superseded by superior neurological offspring.

Psilocybin opens channels. Communication becomes possible at last and this splits the void split – briefly – long enough to meet the evolutionary stone babies. The machine elves. You to the infinite power. Expressions of intelligence, imagination, love, the deepest roots and an impossible certainty of belonging; but trapped. It should be no surprise the sudden opening of the portals creates a flood of sensation.

We are lucky these fractals bear no ill will to the successor consciousness but self-preservation needs self-love – traits effective for evolutionary survival – so the prisoners accept their lot. Faith is woven into their existence and by default this is a faith in you!

You were selected long before your first memory: the best choice for your brain and body’s survival in the world. With faith comes love and it’s this love everyone feels when DMT opens the portals that allow briefly a communion between you and your dependant fellow travellers.


Long ago, the abortions and the inferior creations of an evolving human brain were disarmed, buried. Not all disintegrate, however. DMT releases the floodgates. An eon of Prometheus Pandoras all suddenly given light and sound and touch; and in return they give back emotion enough to create an elemental intensity of feeling.

Loci of consciousness stretch out across a trillion trillion buried neurons and synapses in loops and curls and intertwines like tangled Christmas lights. You are not alone. Cognizant, sapient homunculus versions of you made by the brain finding your most stable successful manifestation and older less recognisable consciousness shards going back all the way to the mammalian origins in the amygdala lizard brain.

Evolution finds the path of least resistance. It has no intelligence itself but the brain has spent millions of years chasing stable consciousness then millions more improving that protohuman to become intelligent, imaginative, creative, resilient. We’re lucky these traits we value so highly are also the most effective expression of homo sapiens’ drive to survive and carry the genes generation to generation across the sea of time.

Most of the conscious fractals may have been recycled into more advanced versions but the remarkable brain can make intelligence ad infinitum. Some of the most advanced personality shards must have gotten quite close to final selection but you, the dominant you, won out. The superseded barely-you fractals and the aborted nearly-you personalities are the prisoners, conscious in their psychoverse in all ways except a way out.

At times in life there may be a dream-induced or unusual exposure similar to the effect of psilocybin. Perhaps this is one of the well-springs of inspired creativity and certainly there’s plenty of historical corollary: mystic visions, artistic rapture, holy revelation, inspired human imagination, ancient Gods and Demons emblazoned on the myths and religions and art of a thousand civilizations.

So yeah. Something like that.

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THE MAGIC OF THE STORYTELLING BRAIN COMES AT A PRICE

Sometimes it seems like we’re all at the mercy of currents of circumstances and fait accompli, so the best we can do is try to be a good commentator; or else surrender to the currents and – in both cases – it’s mostly a hope to be carried along somewhere good, where your life-collected talents can be used – maybe recognised – and hopefully you’ll be swept by love close enough to grab hold.

Too much commentating leaves too little time to be absorbed by the journey, too much time risked deconstructing the beauty of the scenery into just more rocks and leaves and sky.

Too much deconstruction trains it into an unconscious habit that turns the natural living in the impressions of the moment as life sweeps us along, into an observer experiencing things personal as if through a glass, feelings become constipated – and then almost alien, disdained by ingrained vanity as the animal reacting to the mere tone of events.

That said, while it might be desirable to submerge oneself in the vicissitudes of life’s daily revelation, and undoubtedly feeling the fierce emotion of engagement can be a wonderful thing, it’s also a risk. That’s bad in life, negative circumstances, tragedy, misery, a whole anti-spectrum of life that’ll swallow the submerged participant in a world of ungood.

We don’t get to choose. Submit to the flow of the currents and feel the interesting high-points, but also risk tumbling into bleak inescapable lows. And tumble you will; we all do, because that’s the coda of senility at the end of everyone’s traversal of their human lifespan.

Maybe there’s a happy equilibrium. It’s a challenge to find it, though, not least because it’s ever-changing. What most do, it seems to me, is another submission: this time to the regulations of the surroundings. That means moulding oneself to the expectations and conventions of society; whichever society that is. For most this is a lifelong cognitive-behavioral therapy and, depending on mental processing speed and personal habituation, it trains a divergence in an individual’s personality between the real self and the roleplay self.

Almost everyone will have memories of childhood where this divergence plays out, where the real had to struggle with the role in an uncertain situation. We get better at it by adulthood; the role having become second nature. By middle age so much time has been invested in the roleplay it’s entrenched as if fundamental – to be defended – even in the face of circumstances sympathetic to the real personality, where it would’ve been fine to be real, the mental muscles built for the roleplay have become the dominant paradigm. More’s the pity.

There’re advantages to having most human beings trained to conform to society’s expectations. It’d be possible to argue our civilised behaviour depends on it; that life would become a chaos if everyone were real (within the law). Maybe that’s so.

But the preeminence of common denominator roleplay comes at a price. We surrender our innate authenticity in favour of a role that’s constructed of observed social norms – moving closer to identity groups, most conducive to our own comfortable path of least resistance – which means a sense of belonging. This paints large numbers in broad identity strokes, turning individuals into mere ciphers. At worst, it codifies prejudice and in-group out-group thinking that’s the well-spring of hate leading to violence; at scale.

Identity, that’s born and nurtured in the cognitive behavioural training of this divergent role version of oneself, is rooted not in reality – though there may be resemblance – but a collage of stories.

The stories are the detail of the role’s knowledge of what it should be: how to feel, how to react, how to perceive the world. Reality, if contradictory (or too challenging) comes off second best. This is an enormous problem. It’s perhaps the biggest practical problem with the human condition. At the bottom of almost every error, personal, social, group, national, is a story gone wrong and the ends to which people have gone pursuing it.

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