I suppose in fiction,
A ghost could be like a projection,
You know, like a regular one projecting light,
Or a hologram,
Course the brain isn't in the projection,
But there is 'still a cause, arguably a brain 'moving the projection, responding to what they see from the projector to the projection,
And arguably, 'maybe one could project light enough, that it has some solidity to it, could 'move objects?
Course even with all this, it's still a trick, perhaps?
. . .
I suppose a game could have rules,
When a character is injured thus,
He must act thus,
D&D and many other games, have crippled limbs, or altered states of mind,
“Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
But I can't agree with such myself, that 'or his longer one,
Least my actions can't seem to.
“All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”
The Ego rebels against such,
Though some people seem to play Call of Duty, with a fury,
Cursing and screaming, importance placed on kills and deaths virtual,
But this Earth,
I cannot live with such a belief of virtual,
Hm, I am rambling.
. . .
. . .
I don't much care for the controller idea,
Of body and mind,
Yet I can't account for the mind,
Though I suppose myself, it's all body,
Still I can't 'quite place the mind, consciousness, a person,
. . .
. . .
Though I don't say personhood and consciousness don't exist,
Will exists,
I'm aware of my leanings, aware of my thoughts, self, pains and pleasures. . .
Seemingly.
. . .
. . .
. ..
What 'significance, or reality would be had,
In a fiction of existence, manipulated by a true intelligence?
No more blame, than a hammer moved over a nail,
Any blame to be placed beyond ken,
Though a character may end up in straights, suffer some karma,
They were moved there,
Controller is the one to answer,
But there is no controller that I perceive,
And question at times my own control, cause,
. . . .
. . . . . .