Describe your mind like it's a place

[Blorg]

(metaphorize it.) Colors, textures, landmarks, sounds, atmosphere, etc.

[LordLatch]

Visually? This is the map of my mind as I ponder the word "the"



Other words are more complicated.

And to describe my mind as a physical place is tantamount to describing the world and all it's biomes.

Some places are dark and some light, some frantic and some peaceful. Some parts grow and some are dead. If I were to describe it in one word, it would be "wealth"

It's my most valued possession in this world and I love having this mind.

[ObtainGnosis]

I feel as though my mind would have at least two or three common topographies. A human being cycles through hundreds in a given time period, but I understand what you're asking. Can we each envision an atmosphere which is metaphorically reflective of the everyday character or quality of our minds?

Seems like more of a task than I'm willing to take on at the current moment, but I'll give it some thought and come back.

[stuck]

That space between the wedding tackle (critical theory) and the leather cheerio (noesis).

[Johnny]

It's an average bedroom, with an average bed and furniture. The bed is made. There is no TV, radio, or other entertainment. There is a large window facing the backyard and the window is open, but the only thing noticeable is the breeze coming through to move the curtains as though the bedroom is inhaling and exhaling.

There is a dog, maybe a retriever or a lab, curled up and snoozing at the foot of the bed...but there is a vibe about the dog that indicates it would rather be awake and doing something.

At some point it will.

[Utisz]

EDIT: something something then you'll see it's a something something philosophy!

[kari]

There's a little duck ice fishing in the middle of a vast white empty landscape.

[gator]

Viscous liquid, limitless in all directions. There's no visible enclosure and no fixed objects per se. The temperature and viscosity vary and it's usually fairly dark. Things float through it, sometimes in discrete pieces, and sometimes they bleed through in a process of diffusion.

[Hephaestus]

It's industrial. That would be the word that springs to mind. Not industrial in the sense of "How It's Made", though some comparison there would be valid, more industrial like the fire and smoke factories used in movies. But not as noisy or smoky, or necessarily dirty.

The main living area is an executive office. A large semicircular desk, the material it's made from varies. There are little hidden switches here and there that allow it to reconfigure to suit the present task. The walls appear to be made of gears behind a heavy transparent barrier. The overhead area of the desk is a ring of tubes, like an old pneumatic messenger service. There is a constant but random burbling or rattles and hums coming from it as messages fly around. Periodically, there is an audible "whump" as a canister slots home, delivering various random but interesting things. Unfortunately, the material used for these messages is very flimsy and has a tendency to melt after being read.

The walls of gears are punctuated by doorways that lead off to other various bits of the mind, but I almost never get to go to them. The doors have no knobs and can only be opened by the robotic servants that use them--though some can be temporarily opened with the use of the proper chemical key-code. The robots shuttle documents to and from the desk. Documents from the desk are work orders, documents to the desk are generally reports submitted for approval.

Usually there's plenty of room to pace, but when things get serious, the confines tend to shrink to minimize inefficiency.

The space under the desk is alternately occupied by impossible cabinets and a feast of levers, buttons and pedals, many of which are a mystery to me, but every now and then I accidentally kick one and interesting things start happening. Its a shame the first one I accidentally kicked caused the user manual to be shredded. Equally unfortunate is that the manual seems to have jammed the shredder--or at least the shred on demand function is jammed. Now the only way to forget things is to lose them in mass of documents.

[kari]

imagine shrinking yourself and spelunking into a fleshlight that's been regularly used but never cleaned, mould has started growing, it's dank and musty. Sentience has spawned inside this well-loved toy where no one thought it was possible. and then you stub your toe on a book of poems by yoko ono.