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Our relationship to our own thinking is strange to the point of paradox, in fact. When we see a person walking down the street talking to himself, we generally assume that he is mentally ill. But we all talk to ourselves continuously—we just have the good sense to keep our mouths shut. Our lives in the present can scarcely be glimpsed through the veil of our discursivity: We tell ourselves what just happened, what almost happened, what should have happened, and what might yet happen. We ceaselessly reiterate our hopes and fears about the future. Rather than simply existing as ourselves, we seem to presume a relationship with ourselves. It’s as though we were having a conversation with an imaginary friend possessed of infinite patience. Who are we talking to?

While most of us go through life feeling that we are the thinker of our thoughts and the experiencer of our experience, from the perspective of science we know that this is a distorted view. There is no discrete self or ego lurking like a Minotaur in the labyrinth of the brain. There is no region of cortex or pathway of neural processing that occupies a privileged position with respect to our personhood. There is no unchanging “center of narrative gravity” (to use Daniel Dennett’s phrase). In subjective terms, however, there seems to be one—to most of us, most of the time.

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Sam Harris, We Are Lost in Thought (via v0tum)

"Be careful who you vent to."

Realest shit I’ve heard all morning. (via corivicious)

"I will never be a morning person, for the moon and I, are too much in love."

Testy McTesterson  (via loveage-moondream)

"I am angry that I starved my brain and that I sat shivering in my bed at night instead of dancing or reading poetry or eating ice cream or kissing a boy or maybe a girl with gentle lips and strong hands."

Laurie Halse Anderson, Wintergirls (via larmoyante)

"I think there comes a time when you meet someone and you just want to make them smile for the rest of your life."

Unknown (via psych-facts)