Me, agent, you, agent
Sitting under a tree — on wonder, agency, and the observer that contains its own truth without access.
I am here, sitting under a tree. Wind talks behind, sometimes it screams.
My interfaces wonder in what dynamical state they are trapped.
I am full of wonder. I am full of beliefs. I am full of agency I neither deserved nor asked for.
I embody matter I am not aware of. This matter organizes into patterns I can only explain afterwards, and poorly, following other patterns and beliefs — I do not know how they begin to exist in the first place.
What do I know, what do you know? We are full of wonder.
Maybe our cells wonder too. Imagine being a cell trapped in this body — how beautiful it must be to not know how fucked up and ugly their mesoscale house is.
It may be one big, fat thing encapsulating us all, now wondering — in a “park,” under a “tree” — what it means to be us.
Isn’t it funny that the structure, at the end, is only structure — and matter ceases to have any fundamental meaning when we talk about relationships and scales.
The observer, the inquisitor, and the obstacle to the answer.
The observer, the container of its own truth, without access.
Me, agent, you, agent. What are we here for?