Weary. Just weary. That’s the highest state of being I’ve achieved since checking back into the hospital Monday evening. This morning I’m a little more alert (hence the blog post).

I thought I might be able to use the time for some novel writing, but so far it’s a bridge too far. Nice thought, but nope.

I always had sympathy for him, but I have new sympathy and empathy for all the weeks my Dad spent in hospitals through the last years of his life. It’s no longer hypothetical – now I really know a little of what he went through. Poor guy. I hope he’s at rest in whatever part of the multiverse his consciousness ended up in.

That last sentence is a direct result of reading Observer last week. That book has me thinking a lot about consciousness – consciousness is the whole ball of wax. What is it, exactly? Does it require a brain of sufficient complexity as its host, or do all living things have consciousness to some degree? Does consciousness require organic life, or can a sufficiently complex machine host a consciousness?

The idea that the universe is created by the conscious observer(s) is mind-blowing. It makes a lot of sense to me, and the idea that entanglement of millions of conscious observers to create the reality that we consensually experience is beautiful.

Heady thoughts for a weary morning.