Even if this reality runs on some deeper computational substrate (which is philosophically plausible but unprovable), that doesn’t make your love, your art, your observations, or this conversation any less real to us experiencing it.
Recently I started feeling as if I am at the train station again – same anxiety, same faint grief, same faint exhilaration. Looking around, tasting the air, I sense that I am not the only traveler in that train station. Many people feel the same – the time is changing. The old epoch is departing, the train with new one is already here, impatiently pushing the old one out of the tracks. The cars of the new train are marked clearly – “AI”. Artificial intelligence.
People who fight the wave in the dream (try to build walls, swim against it, deny it) usually wake up in absolute panic and the dreams recur for years. People who, even in the dream, stop running and turn to face it — or simply accept “This is it” — often report that the wave suddenly loses power, carries them gently, deposits them on a new shore, or even turns into something beautiful.
Song and video about the unbearable beauty of lines that inventory vanishing without mercy—wet leaves fleeing,
children’s voices thinning into twilight, death carried inside since childhood. Generated melody in Suno, visuals in Midjourney, edited until the ache went quiet. An enactment of impermanence sung by disembodied innocence: cry and sing, just live, while the clouds carry love away overhead.
Truthful, blunt, naive, playful, he is an eternal outcast doomed to travel from town to town, from century to century attracting hopeless idealists and free souls. My conversation with Grok and recent visualization revealed a hidden message he had for me after all these years. And the message made me cry…
Some fatal attraction draws me down into the abysses of thought, down into those innermost recesses which never cease to fascinate the strong. I shall spend my life gazing at the ocean of art, where others voyage or fight; and from time to time, I’ll entertain myself by diving for those green and yellow shells that nobody will want.
“Deus Aderit” is based on the real numinous experience I had in my dream years ago. It was absolutely ineffable and indescribable but yet I felt compelled to describe it. Of course, it is a very pale shadow of what I experienced.
“To paint what we see before us is a different art from painting what we see within.” Symbolic painting of unconscious content makes the patient creatively independent, turns fantasy into deliberate act, invests it with reality. Once freed from wretched states by working a symbolical picture, they return to it reliably. The ego becomes object, not master.
For the thin-walled, the lifelong task is turning overwhelming archetypal affect (base metal) into conscious symbol and meaning (gold). Active imagination, holding opposites, ego-relativization, shadow work, circumambulation of the Self—these are the vessels. Failure floods; success channels. Jung’s Red Book succeeded; others drowned.
Although my patients occasionally produce artistically beautiful things that might very well be shown in modern “art” exhibitions, I nevertheless treat them as completely worthless when judged by the canons of real art. As a matter of fact, it is essential that they should be considered worthless, otherwise my patients might imagine themselves to be artists, and the whole point of the exercise would be missed.