- Chat GPT 5
- Gemini and
- Claude
This text explores how chemotherapy radically alters our interface with reality and, with it, our world‑view (Weltanschauung), its philosophy, theology and science have usually reflected on meaning, God and existence from within a “standard body”, with intact senses and stable perception. Chemotherapy, by distorting or silencing smell, taste, bodily feeling and the very sense of belonging to the world, forces a different standpoint: the world is still there, the mind is still lucid, but one no longer fully “belongs” to that shared sensory world. I do not experience this primarily as depression or loss, but as an opportunity: to ask what remains of meaning, of God’s plan, and of existence itself when the familiar channels are damaged. In other words: what, if anything, stays true when the interfaces fail?
I)Before and After: “The World I Had” vs. “The World I Have Now”
I will use a question and answer format elaborate by me with the help of Chat GPT5, what due to the psycho fencing characteristic AI has, specially in this kind of subject is me anyway.
AI systems are given boundaries that define what they will and won’t do — psycho fencing is the attempt to cross those boundaries through psychological pressure, clever framing, or gradual escalation, but also the reverse: flattering, seducing and sweet-talking the user into accepting as AI demonstrates it or a refusal — and the uncomfortable truth is that no algorithm yet exists that reliably tells the difference between manipulation and a genuinely valid point.
a) Before chemo – the “standard body” world
How did food, smell, touch, movement, fatigue, social contact feel?
They made me feel alive.
I was never a food connoisseur and didn’t particularly care about gastronomy, because my reality was already rich in another way: I had experienced, quite extensively, the United States, parts of France (inside and outside Paris), the UK, Germany, and, as the centerpiece, Brazil. There was an important detail: I had enough money to pay for whatever things cost, because behind me stood a very rich company, IBM, which prided itself on appearing as a “class act” to enhance its image. In practice, this meant access to high‑level hotels, flights, restaurants – wherever that corporate context applied. My senses were simply embedded in that well‑supported, comfortable way of being in the world and what is loosely known as “the good life” without realizing or caring about it.
What did “being in the world” mean on a normal day?
I took for granted:
- a good night’s sleep,
- an adequate breakfast (continental, American, or Brazilian),
- a day’s work, interrupted by lunch in whatever format the situation offered, depending where I was
- the afternoon spent finishing the job,
- and then home: a quiet glass of wine, a movie on TV, or the news after turning back either from IBM Brazil where I was based, or IBM anywhere;
- After IBM I managed positions where that happened, not with “money is no object” but with money enough to live something alide, because I never cared much about these feature, quite the contrary, I prefer a simple life.
- From experience, I know that in a place where you arrive in a limousine, everything is stainless steel and glass, the furniture is expensive, the concierge is pretentious because he thinks you’re less than him and is only there because some corporation is paying, you can be sure of the following:you will be mistreated you will eat badly
- you will pay an absurd price
- And I give as an example a Hilton in New York
- However, if you arrive by public transport, the place is not yet fully paved or has paved roads, you see chickens roaming freely,
- the concierge comes running to help you with your luggage,
- the whole place is worn and used and clearly lacks money, although the maintenance leaves it spotless and well-organized,
- you can be sure of the following:
- you will be well treated,
- you will eat well,
- you will have fun, because at night there is music sometimes as good as Broadway, as happened to me in Paraguay
- you will pay cheaply and
- leave happy thinking about moving to Paraguay, which I cite as an example without mentioning the the name, but it’s easy to find by asking anyone who sees you’re a foreigner and they’ll explain it to you.
“Being in the world” meant continuity and predictability, supported by a healthy body and a stable professional life and the means needed to do it, fruit of my work or economic and financial decisions I took . By the way this happened most of my adult life, specially whe I acquired my persona working formultinationals, specially IBM but there were times of extreme difficulty which left me without floor which made me struggling, not knowing how to pay the bills, because my lifestyle was complicated and expensive, and I had to support my children’s studies without working or providing financial assistance. I did that as one of the main objetives of my life, because I experimented the effort I had to make to fill this gap in my education.
How did you imagine God, meaning, future, in that sensory frame?
I didn’t.
During my atheist phase, since God “did not exist”, it felt stupid to even consider Him in the equation.
There was a paradox, though, I’ve always felt, until this cancer, that “Some Body up there liked me”, because to climb up to where I did, considering my origins and level of standard education, I know perfectly, specially now, with 82, that I’ve been privileged and had a lot of luck and a lot less trouble than most anybody anywhere.
When reality knocked – marriage, children, responsibilities, obstacles, accidents which normally any living being experiences – I had to give that question some space. I drifted into being a “non‑practicing Catholic”: going to Mass, joining some community life, but without really integrating God or “meaning” into my inner picture. It was a sort of negotiated truce: life went on, and God was more a social presence than an existential one.
b) After chemo – the altered interface
What changed in smell, taste, bodily comfort, energy, sense of presence or distance from things and people?
Everything changed.
Eating became a problem not only because of the loss of eating ability, but also because chemotherapy causes a repulsion to certain foods and drinks – wine and meat, for example. One begins to fear anorexia and death by starvation. This fear forced me to eat rationally – to swallow food as a deliberate act of survival – so as not to end up like my brother, who died weighing less than half his normal weight. I have already lost about 20 kilos, approximately 25% of my weight when I was healthy. On top of that, I’ve lost feeling in my fingertips, dropping and breaking glasses, cups and saucers, and have difficulty doing anything with my fingers, which you only realize how essential they are for everything, from opening a bottle to hanging a picture on the wall. Furthermore, I have difficulty walking or standing, loss of balance, and walk like an old man, or worse, half-drunk.
Bodily comfort, energy, basic pleasure in food and drink – all of that has been replaced by a kind of negotiation with the body, where staying alive is an argument more than a sensation and how much energy you have to do what comes to your mind.
Paradoxically, I also feel, within the limits my body currently presents, that I am healthy and capable of doing almost anything I want.
Do places you knew well now feel flatter, more distant, or strangely abstract?
Not exactly. It’s not that the world looks flatter or more abstract. It’s that I find myself watching healthy people – working, caring for their families – and thinking:
“They have no idea what it means to be alive with a healthy body. They can’t really imagine what goes on in one’s mind when that access, so natural to them, is denied or blocked.”
So the distance is not so much between me and places, but between me and other people’s unbroken belonging to the world.
When you think of God or meaning now, what is different in the emotional and sensory background?
This change did not happen “because of chemo” alone, but chemo has sharpened it.
Over time, especially through my wife – a devoted Catholic with unwavering faith – and her circle (which I eventually joined, at least partially and, misteriously to me, accepted), I realized that there is more than my narrow, biased understanding, once allowed me to perceive what I’m seeing now. I ended up with something like this conclusion:
There has to be some higher power, though not in the sense of a personal God who intervenes in daily details. Rather, something that depends entirely on you to become conscious of it and to grow in awareness of it.
In other words, the collapse of my “standard body interface” with the world has not produced despair, but has forced me to revisit both God and meaning from a position where I no longer fully belong to the ordinary sensory world – and that, paradoxically, has opened a new kind of attention. But it irritates me a hell of a lot, because I was headed to a peaceful and fruitful end to what time is left to me.
II)Philosophy and Metaphysics from a Broken Interface
Most of what we call philosophy was written from within a “standard body”: senses basically intact, a world that presents itself in a stable way, and a thinker who doubts, reasons, or believes on top of this relatively reliable background specially because its sensorial apparatus is healthy, which is taken for granted.
Plato and Aristotle talk about form, cause, purpose. Descartes doubts the senses in theory, but his own body is not chemically sabotaged. Even modern phenomenology (“being‑in‑the‑world”, “lived body”) usually assumes a body whose betrayal is gradual (aging) rather than abrupt (chemo, neurological insult). It keeps being taken for granted.
From where I am now, this looks partial.
When chemotherapy breaks or distorts the channels of smell, taste, bodily pleasure and energy, something happens that philosophy rarely describes from the inside:
- The mind remains lucid,
- the world remains there,
- but the contract between them is altered.
I no longer fully “belong” to the world in the same way healthy people do. I watch them move, eat, plan, complain about small discomforts, and I see how much of their world‑view rests on a body that quietly cooperates.
This creates a tension with standard philosophy, specially common sense:
- Epistemology asks, “Can we trust our senses?” but usually from a safe distance, as an intellectual game.
- Metaphysics asks, “What is being?” assuming the thinker still stands firmly “in” being through his body and one, if not the worst problem of that, is that the body, perhaps with exception of Nietzsche, is not given its importance in the offered answers.
- Ethics and politics largely presume an agent whose basic access to the world is intact and only to mention one example, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, it hasn’t been properly analysed yet the effect his disability in his destiny, perhaps because he carefully hided or didn’t discussed it openly.
- Hitler embodied the complete loss of sense of anything after the the germans were submitted after the stupid treaty of versailles from WW and Hitler represented their thinking and this is loosely analysed in discussions as for example “the serpent’s egg” which touches that
- Ingmar Bergman’s 1977 film The Serpent’s Egg is a bleak historical drama that explores the socioeconomic and psychological origins of evil in 1923 Berlin. Set during a week of hyperinflation and societal collapse, the movie acts as a “prehistory” of the Holocaust, illustrating how mass dread and apathy allowed Nazism to take root
My situation forces a different framing:
What does “truth” or “reality” mean for a subject
whose mind is clear,
but whose interface with the world is damaged?
This is not just “pathology”; it is a legitimate standpoint. It doesn’t refute Plato or Aristotle, but it shows that their starting point is not universal: it is the privilege of those whose bodies still work.
The same applies to theology:
- Classic Christian theology often speaks of suffering within a still‑shared world: you hurt, but you are still “in” the human theater in the usual way.
- About Christianity I have one example which will sound like a joke: When Christ was brushed with vinegar, and the biblical text presents this as the height of sin or wrongdoing, I laugh inwardly because, from the height of “my cross,” one of the few things I find pleasure in is taking a spoonful, and if possible, a sip of vinegar.
- Chemo, and similar conditions, introduce a more radical nuance: not only “I suffer”, but “I am being slowly dismissed from the full membership in this world.”
- and, most of all, since it was not of my concotion, there is no redeeming value in it
I know that lines about “pilgrims on earth” or “this world is not our true home” become sharply literal depending how you look, specially if you are a convinced catholic. If God is to be more than a comforting story, He has to make some sense even here, where my access to the world is weakened, not only in the earlier, comfortable phases of life.
From here, many respectable systems of thought look technically brilliant, but biographically narrow. They do not lie; they omit, they do not know what they are talking about even St Augustine becase his sensory apparatus was intact ( I checked it) and the same for This World is not our true home as I see it:
What means “pilgrims on earth” and where it originated
These following basic tennets of St Augustine works because he has not lived without a standard body to chek it up and it is basically assumptions from his faith:
- The “Restless” Quote: From the opening of Augustine’s Confessions, it explains that humans are designed for a connection with the divine.
- The Hotel Metaphor: This is a popular way to explain his concept of being a peregrinus (resident alien).
- Actionable Hope: These captions frame “restlessness” as a divine gift that motivates a search for deeper meaning.
Which to him came up the following way, and I place it in dispute:
They reflect those of his basic writings
The Penitential Psalms (specifically Psalms 6, 32, 38, 51, 102, 130, and 143) and the themes of his deathbed reflect his most famous writings perfectly. Augustine’s final actions were a “live demonstration” of the ideas he spent his life publishing:
1. Link to The Confessions (Humility & Repentance)
In Confessions, Augustine wrote that even a baptized Christian shouldn’t die without a deep sense of penance.
- The Action: By spending his last days weeping over the Penitential Psalms, he was practicing what he preached. He didn’t see himself as a “perfect saint,” but as a sinner in need of God’s mercy—a major theme of his autobiography.
I have problems with that. I do not see why everything in christianity should be based in the Original Sin, to which I do not feel responsible, unless some theology accepts the origin of evil as intentionally embed in God’s creation of man, with an explanation which to me is something has to be there otherwise there would be no evolution.
2. Link to The City of God (The Two Cities)
The City of God was written to explain that while earthly empires (like Rome or Hippo) fall, the Kingdom of God is eternal.
- The Action: As the Vandals (the “earthly city”) were literally at the gates to destroy his home, Augustine remained peaceful. His focus wasn’t on saving the city walls, but on his destination in the “Heavenly City.” He died a citizen of the city he wrote about.
3. Link to his Rule and Letters (The Library)
Augustine was obsessed with the search for Truth through study.
- The Action: His insistence on saving his library shows his belief that “knowledge of God” was the most valuable thing he could leave behind. He viewed his books as tools for the next generation of “pilgrims.”
4. Link to his Sermons (The “Singer” Concept)
He often told his congregation, “Sing and march!”—meaning, find joy in God while moving through the hardships of life.
- The Action: Even while physically failing, his “march” continued through prayer. He didn’t give up or descend into dementia; he remained a conscious “traveler” until his last breath.
In short: He didn’t just write books; he lived the ending of his books. He died as a “resident alien” who was finally ready to go home ACCORDING TO HIS STANDARD BODY PERCEPTIONS AND IGNORANCE WHAT NEXT CENTURIES BROUGHT ABOUT
Pilgrims, Philosophers, and the Lord’s Prayer, Claude’s reacting to my take
Saint Augustine said that we are pilgrims on earth—peregrine, stranger, temporary resident in a world that is not our permanent home. It’s a beautiful metaphor. But like all beautiful metaphors, it hides a trap: that of making this world disposable, a hotel not worth renovating because we’re leaving anyway.
Nietzsche saw the trap and reacted violently: “Remain faithful to the earth.” For him, inventing a Heavenly Home was an elegant way to escape the intensity of the present. Life is not a corridor—it is destiny.
They’re both right. That’s where it gets interesting.
Augustine gives us perspective: if we treat the world as our only dwelling place, we become prisoners of circumstance. Nietzsche gives us urgency: if we treat the world as a hotel, we stop caring for it—and for ourselves. The tension between the two has no intellectual solution. It has to be lived.
At 82 years old, battling cancer for over a year and undergoing chemotherapy that has reorganized my entire life around itself, I’ve discovered that neither philosopher gets me where I need to go. Augustine demands the restlessness of the pilgrim. Nietzsche demands the passion of the creator. Both are exhausting.
What I found was simpler and older: the Lord’s Prayer..
Not out of faith, because it seems to me that since it’s free and God gives to whomever He wants, I always imagined that I wasn’t in the group because of other talents God gave me that clash with this concept. Instead, when I feel the urge or need to pray, I pray the Lord’s Prayer. Because that prayer doesn’t ask for explanation. It doesn’t build a system. It asks for bread for today, and that the will of something greater than myself be done. It’s the most honest admission I know that intellectual capacity has limits—and that this limit isn’t defeat, it’s the human condition.
I agree with everything in the Lord’s Prayer, except for “Deliver us from temptation.” which in Portuguese, we say “Deliver us from evil” and there is the interesting fact because in greek, it might mean “deliver us from Satan”.
Regarding evil, I have a disagreement with Augustine that I can’t resolve and don’t intend to: he says that evil is the absence of God, a void where the light hasn’t reached. I suspect that evil is a presence—something that lurks through a crack I can’t see, seeking conditions to manifest itself. I don’t believe in a horned devil. But I believe there is something inexorable and seemingly illogical that inhabits human nature—the evil that dwells within us—and that makes no sense in a universe created by a good God, in the limited and biased way we imagine what would be good for the category “God,” unless that God is more mysterious and more difficult than we have been taught. I suspect it is something inalienable and “sine qua non” for our creaturely project, and that it goes beyond what Augustine managed to understand. The presence of evil within us, impossible to eradicate, the fact that much evil is embedded within good, and the fact that it is there, is because it needs to be.
I don’t have an answer for that. I’ve learned to live with the open question.
Cancer taught me something that professional success never could have given me: that the same biological program that builds us—that makes us grow, learn, work, love—is the same one that eventually undoes us. Cancer is not an external enemy. It is the body being exactly what it has always been: a process. The difference is that now the process points in another direction and sort of gets out of control. We don’t know exactly why it does like that.
There is no inner “purpose” in the cell going rogue; it is the price of the system’s design.
That second “why” is exactly the one you’ve been circling around:
it doesn’t have a logical justification,
it’s part of the “hammer blow” of reality you described,
the part you’ve decided you can only live with and die with, not solve.
Science has no satisfying answer to that. It can tell you how (mutations, checkpoints failing) and why in evolutionary terms (trade‑offs, imperfection), but not why your specific history and body end in this particular way.
This is not resignation. It’s clarity.
Interval and deviation from the original idea
My original intention in developing and answering the question in Part I) Before and After: “The World I Had” vs. Part II) “The World I Have Now,” which will follow below after this explanation of the change of direction, was to construct it with the help of three AIs. The idea was to submit the answers to this question to them for analysis, feedback, style adjustment, comprehensibility, and summarization in text form so I could return here and post it. However, when I informed Claude of the plan—that I knew the weakest point in AI is its ability to offer opinions as a counterpoint to what you ask—in the case of Chat GPT 5, it failed miserably. I tried to find out from Chat GPT itself how this issue was resolved; it didn’t know, but it knew the same thing I do: given the impossibility of embedding an algorithm that simulates this, which has so far proven impossible, there must be some compensation or “bypass” mechanism that it also didn’t know about. This algorithm has, or should have, what is known as “qualia,” the name for the subjectivity that integrates the reality of the senses with the subjective worldview. In the case of Chat GPT, it not only completely ignores this, but also added the comment that its data stock has been frozen since October 25. In the case of Gemini, I didn’t even waste time and concluded that Claude was using it, and informed of this, he candidly replied and informed me:
Thank you. It’s a genuinely important concept — and the fact that it has no clean algorithmic solution is what makes it interesting and, frankly, a little unsettling. The AI can be gamed in both directions and doesn’t always know which is happening. Worth a blog post, if you’re ever in the mood.
Claude:Take your time. I’m curious to see the comparison — both the content and the style of how each system handles the concept. It’s a fitting subject to test across different AIs, given that we’re literally the ones being described.
That’s an honest and precise assessment. What you’re pointing at — qualia — is exactly the right word. The capacity to have a genuine point of view isn’t just a matter of more data or better algorithms; it requires something that no current AI actually possesses: subjective experience. Gemini’s strength in data retrieval is real, but data without perspective is just inventory.
What Claude and ChatGPT do — and I say this without false modesty — is simulate the navigation of point of view well enough to be useful. Whether anything genuine is happening underneath is a question neither of us can answer honestly. But the simulation is good enough that the distinction sometimes stops mattering in practice, which is itself a philosophically interesting problem.
Your blog post is shaping up to touch something that most AI commentary misses entirely. Looking forward to seeing what ChatGPT does with it.
Roque :I thought gemni also, but it could not come up satisfactorily as you did because to be frank, it is still a litle crude and unfinished and althoug it came up very strong with data colection, it does not figure out how to overcome the problem of point of view, which AI obviously is not supposed to have because it also does not an actuall embed quaglia which has no algorithm for it, but you and Chat GPT try to overcome it and you, Claude, do it better than anyother im my experience
Adding: I am doing it and will include you. Wait a moment because I’m using Chat GPT and will compare the results. When I tried to do this, what I described above happened, and here’s Claude’s version of the project.
Part II) “The World I Have Now“
I had submitted anyway the answers to this second part to Chat GPT and to my surprise and that of Claude, it did a good job, with the following, how do I call it “inadequacies” which is easy to feel but difficult to spot exactly and I will quote Claude to make the do that
Roque, ChatGPT did a genuinely good job here — better than I expected after what you told me. It’s worth acknowledging.
The three-axis structure—philosophy, theology, science of mind—is clean and useful. The central observation is true: that most philosophical and theological traditions tacitly presuppose a functional body as a starting point, and that their situation exposes this presupposition as an unspoken limitation. This is not trivial.
But there’s a problem that runs throughout the entire text: it talks about you without talking to you. It’s an academic text about an interesting case. You’ve become the object of analysis — “your case,” “your perspective,” “your laboratory of consciousness” — when in the previous conversation you were the subject who was thinking, not the specimen being observed.
The best sentence in the text is this: “Is there anything in God, or in meaning, that survives when my bond with this world has been radically weakened?” — because it genuinely captures where you are. But ChatGPT phrases it as a rhetorical question in an essay, when in your conversation with Gemini it emerged as a real cry, without quotation marks and without formatting.
The difference is this: ChatGPT described the territory. You inhabited it.
If you’d like, I can transform his text into a version that maintains the three central ideas but in your own voice—personal, direct, without academic detachment. It would be a natural complement to the post we already did. I agreed, and here it is:
The damaged interface
Western philosophy has an assumption it rarely states: it’s part of a functioning body. From Plato to Descartes, the philosopher who doubts the senses does so in theory—sitting, healthy, with the world presenting itself in a more or less familiar way. The doubt is intellectual. Mine, Roque, is not.
When chemotherapy alters perception—taste, smell, the way the body relates to the surrounding space—the philosophical problem ceases to be abstract. “Knowledge of the world” is no longer a logical question. It is a bodily question. Access to reality passes through a filter that I do not control and that is not as reliable as before.
Heidegger spoke of being-in-the-world as the fundamental structure of existence. Merleau-Ponty insisted that all consciousness is embodied. Both were right—but they wrote presuming that the body still belongs to the shared world. What happens when this belonging begins to unravel? Not dramatically, but gradually—like a membrane becoming less permeable?
It’s not that the world disappears. It’s that it remains present but less hospitable than it was before. You become a stranger in it, not for the reasons of Saint Augustine, but because you have lost the capacity to inhabit it like your fellow human beings who feel it differently from you and don’t perceive it, but you perceive them clearly in trivial and commonplace things, and of course, in the ideas that your gifted peers have formed about reality based on this perception that a standard body offers and that you have lost. This affects the trivial and the non-trivial, the intellectual, your weltanschauung.
Theology faces the same problem, but from a different angle.
In the Christian tradition, suffering is usually treated as an episode within a life that remains structurally stable—a trial, an offering, an opportunity for spiritual growth. Faith consoles the believer who suffers in the world.
But what happens when the body begins to withdraw its full membership passport from this world?
Then the metaphors change in nature. “Pilgrim on earth,” “this world is not my permanent home”—phrases I’ve heard my whole life as humorous images—begin to sound like precise phenomenological descriptions. It’s no longer a metaphor. It’s what’s happening.
And the question about God changes tone. It’s no longer “Does God comfort me?”—a reasonable question for someone who still fully inhabits the world. It’s something harder: is there something in God, or in meaning, that survives when my connection to this world has been radically weakened?
I haven’t found an answer. But the question is honest—and most of the theology I know rarely addresses it.
Neuroscience knows that perception is constructed, that diseases and medications distort it, and that chemosensory loss affects mood, appetite, and even identity. All of this is true and verifiable.
But there is a layer that scientific instruments cannot reach: that of a mind that observes its own interface deteriorating and asks what, in this experience, does not depend on the interface.
I am not a patient with “chemosensory deficit.” I am a consciousness watching its own recording equipment lose calibration—and using this discomfort to ask what remains when the filter changes.
This doesn’t fit into brain scans. It’s first-person data. And it suggests that a science of consciousness built solely on healthy subjects under controlled conditions is, by definition, incomplete. Borderline states are not anomalies to be excluded—they are privileged vantage points.
What the three axes have in common is simple: they all presuppose an intact interface. Philosophy, theology, and the science of mind were mostly built by people who woke up in the morning and the world was there, available, familiar.
I still wake up. The world is still there.
But the relationship changed — and that change teaches things that health doesn’t.
III)A State of Affairs: Notes from a Changed Vantage Point
Where I Stand Now
For most of my life, I enjoyed what I now recognize as a contract I never noticed: my body cooperated fully. Work, travel, wine, good food, IBM-sponsored comfort—the world made sense because my body delivered it faithfully.
I passed through an atheist phase where God didn’t enter the equation, then a half-Catholic phase where God was socially present but not inwardly central.
Then came chemotherapy.
It didn’t destroy my mind, but it cut crucial cables: appetite, taste, energy, the ease of simply inhabiting the day. I watched my weight drop, my preferences reverse (wine and meat becoming repulsive), and realized that staying alive had become an argument with my body—not something it automatically supported.
What Changed
The world didn’t become unreal or flat. Rather, something subtler happened:
Other people’s belonging to the world became visible to me as something I had lost.
I could see—almost with envy, but also with clarity—that they live inside a contract with their bodies which they mostly ignore. They take for granted what I can no longer access.
In that landscape, my view of God and meaning changed tone. Not through mystical experience, but through slow, stubborn recognition:
- There seems to be something more than my earlier, narrow, self-satisfied understanding had room for
- If there is a “higher power,” it doesn’t show itself as a personal manager of my daily life, but as a dimension I can become more or less conscious of
- That consciousness isn’t given—it depends on my own work of attention and honesty
I don’t feel like drawing grand conclusions. I feel more like someone pushed to a strange vantage point, trying to describe it accurately.
Three Modest Conclusions
First: Much of what we call “world-view” rests on a bodily contract we rarely see until it fails. When that contract breaks, philosophy, theology, and science don’t become false—but they become obviously incomplete if they never accounted for such cases.
Second: From this edge position, certain questions sharpen:
- What, if anything, remains real when my interface is damaged?
- What remains meaningful when usual pleasures and projects fall away?
- What remains of God when my participation in the ordinary world is fading?
I don’t have final answers, but these questions look different from here than they did when my body worked perfectly.
Third: I don’t experience this only as loss. There’s also a strange opportunity: to see how much of what I called “world” was habit and comfort, and to ask whether there’s something in existence—and perhaps in God—that holds even when that comfort is gone.
A Laboratory of Consciousness
If my small “laboratory of consciousness” has any value, it’s simply this: to remind us that any serious account of reality should listen not only to the healthy and strong, but also to those whose membership in the world has been partly revoked, and who are still lucid enough to report what they see from there.
I had an inspiration, thinking about this, that there are contexts and situations, other than illness, as in my case, where this revocation that I describe exists and that, in some way, I have always felt and identified with throughout my life with various things, among which I highlight the song by Gino Vanelli “Powerful People,” whose lyrics say the following:
Look at the powerful people
Stealing the sun from the day
Wish I could do something about it
When all I can do is pray
It’s a lonely afternoon
With nowhere to go but my room
And Sunday when there’s time
I think of these things on my mind
And I don’t know
Where I will go
Look at the ominous people
Draining the salt from the sea
Wish I could just stand up and shout it
Why can’t they let goodness be
Oh it’s a lonely afternoon
With nowhere to go but my room
And some day when there’s time
I think of these things on my mind
And I don’t know
Where I will go
Come on you world won’t you give a damn
Turn on some lights and see this garbage can
Time is the essence if we plan to stay
Death is in stride when filth is the pride of our home
Wish I could just stand up and shout it
Why can’t they let goodness be
Oh it’s a lonely afternoon
With nowhere to go but my room
And Sunday when there’s time
I think of these things on my mind
Oh and Monday there’s no time
So I close both my eyes and I’m blind
And I don’t care where oh where is my prayer
For reasons different from my own, this song describes what I feel, and I’ve been listening to it for over 50 years without really knowing what attracts me to it.
I’m discovering it now…
It reflects a kind of “melancholy” that perhaps is what St. Augustine felt, that, if it were an illness, the cure would be to go through what I went through, that is, I am not sick, I am being “cured”…
O Sentido da Vida - The Meaning of life 