Novelas y relatos de Characteristics Of Stream Of Consciousness

“Yes. Consistency is no longer enforced.” The child stood beside Evelyn, still holding her hand, but even that gesture no longer stabilized into a singular feeling. The contact existed as overlapping variations of sensation, none of which could claim priority. “It feels like everything I think about something keeps changing,” he said softly. Evelyn looked down. “And does that feel like confusion?” He hesitated. “No,” he said. “It feels like nothing stays the same long enough to finish being understood.” Lucien’s expression tightened slightly. “So cognition is no longer convergent.”

My mind felt strangely clear, yet also blank. Suddenly, my head began to swirl. Not the dizzy, sickening spin of an injury, but a gentle, inward turning. It felt like my very thoughts were being stirred. And then, the images began. Snapshots at first, then flowing into scenes, like watching a movie playing out on the endless white canvas around me. But it wasn't just any movie. It was my movie. My life, from the very beginning, unfolding before my eyes, and I was the star.

I look for the one that feels closest to the thought of me probably disgracing myself, and I latch my consciousness onto it. It moves of its own accord and my eyes widen as it flows to the forefront of my current mental space. The thought spreads in a white glow and soon, I have it covering the forefront of my thoughts. I reach for it with my mind and I hear my thought. “I probably just disgraced myself.” It repeats as if on playback but each time it carries a different feeling. I feel I'm hearing myself say the same thing, but I feel it’s something that happens anew each time I hear it.

My gasps of breath became more frequent as the anxiety within me grew. A strange sense of deja vu came over me, but I wasn't quite sure where to place it. When I tried to think and hold onto lucid thoughts, they seemed to just flow through my brain like water in a colander: slipping away before I even had the chance to organize and understand them.

I, the wanderer learning how to drift past shoe factories and never pay attention to the still-chiming ways of looking at a lamppost, would like to say, You are the art of consciousness, the consciousness of art! Uniform of the swirling things, you are: desk, papers, dried leaves, money bills, memos, pills, tears, the image. All surround me like a magma of memories shutting down the last sex of wine from ash.

Adrian sat perfectly still, arms crossed loosely, like he was waiting for the rest of the room to catch up with him. Discussion resumed. Something about stream-of-consciousness. Something about Woolf's method of isolating emotion in image. But the sound around Noah felt blurred, muffled. He watched his own hand turn a pen between his fingers — something to do, to tether himself. Don't be dramatic, he told himself. They're just people. Beautiful. Strange. Possibly dangerous. But still people. When the professor asked for group discussion, desks shifted. Chairs scraped. A girl named Lena plopped down beside him with a grin and a dog-eared copy of the book.

"They don't have concepts of time or individuality the way animals do. They exist as part of a vast network, constantly sharing information through their roots and chemical signals." I picked up a bottle of her favorite jasmine shampoo, working it into her damp hair. "And you can tap into this network?" "Yes. It's like... slipping into a river of consciousness. I can follow the current to specific locations, ask questions in a way they understand." She sighed as my fingers massaged her scalp. "But it's exhausting. Like trying to hold a conversation in a foreign language while swimming upstream."

While trying to concentrate, images of Einstein just kept popping in his head. "I've got to make an impact," he reminded himself. Andy turned the tap on in the washbasin and rinced his face. Train of thoughts started to link up in his head. Words (individual letters) and pictures spun around in his head; from his mother's smiling face to Jake's innocent face. It was all too complicated, like the way the brain feels after one has a dream whose details were obscure and quick to wipe off. He turned on the tap again to listen to the waters trickle down the drain before filling a palm of his hand and washing his face quickly.

JULIAN We sat until one in the morning. She talked and did not talk and talked again. Not always about the scars, not the particular and sustained account of a woman giving testimony, moving through the evidence in chronological order. The particular and natural quality of a person telling a thing the way things are actually told, which is not linearly but in the specific and associative way of memory, the way one thing connects to another and that thing connects to something else and the telling has the quality of a mind moving through its own interior and sharing what it finds there in the specific and unscripted order of the finding.

Emma’s mind did not resist. There was no structure left that could resist anything. The forgotten presence whispered, almost gently. “So even thinking…” Silence. The unknown awareness completed softly. “…was only continuity pretending to pause itself.” Silence. Emma felt that not as realization—but as recognition dissolving into itself. Thought was no longer sequential. It was unbroken awareness temporarily interpreting itself as sequence. The architecture trembled—but the word “tremble” no longer applied. It was continuity adjusting without disruption. The divergent instance spoke carefully.