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Discussion Starter · #1 ·
Do you ever get the feeling after listening to an exotic genre music or discussing strange ideas with others that the world just became deeper and more complex than you originally thought? This probably sounds cliché but it seems at times I stop understanding a topic and start feeling it.
Anyone relate?
 

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Yes, I have a fascination with the unknown and obscure. I am motivated to find what they are and how they work. In these situations things do seem more complex in the sense I can notice more factors that interact together but after that it does not seem as complex as before and all I can marvel at is the beauty of them.
 

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Discussion Starter · #3 ·
Yes, I have a fascination with the unknown and obscure. I am motivated to find what they are and how they work. In these situations things do seem more complex in the sense I can notice more factors that interact together but after that it does not seem as complex as before and all I can marvel at is the beauty of them.
This exactly. But once I sit back and feel confident in my world view, something else will arise and start it will become complex all over again. :proud:
 

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Yes I have this problem but it's circular

In dreams I'm often QUITE cut off from others but it seems to be how I want. I wander in city scapes. Occasionally I talk with someone but they aren't interested and if they are I lose interest, and I don't have the strength to pursue it and if I do, the other person finds it gauche. Last night for instance I was in an apartment complex in New York City. I was sent to the apartment of an important recording artist to gain a signature on some form. While getting the signature I felt connected, but then the artist simply DISAPPEARED in plain view, he was a major upcoming hipster artist but suddenly I saw him as a sellout, and wanted nothing to do with him, and I was left in what looked like an amazingly meager studio apartment painted purple. I went through the bookshelves and saw just a few cartoon books. Dilbert cartoons. They were not even dog-eared. They had never been read, but appeared to be there just to fill up the shelves. But for every book there were lots of knick-knacks quite sparingly and artfully arranged. It was as if no one really lived there. And everything was a cliche. I couldn't wait to get out!

I then walked to the metro through the snow on a dark street and came to a station in which upwards of twenty bohemian artist types were sitting together in evident comraderie (shoulders all touching in a single horizontal row and I was envious of this but would never be able to meld into such a group even though I felt in some way that they wanted me to because if I did I know I would start to look down on all the others there, and then I would lose all feeling for them, and just want them all to die). I didn't see a way to get up the steps past them without saying, Excuse me, because now I had such evident hatred for these people and how they might accept me, that I didn't know how to feel about it. I didn't want to use my voice because I wasn't sure it would work since in my dreams my voice almost never works but when it does it suddenly comes out too loud. Sometimes it does but mostly it doesn't. Then I realized these weren't artists, but actual bums. They were looking for handouts. At first I thought they might attack me. Then I realized they had taken a strong convivial interest in me but I had no idea who they were or why I would accept them. I was flattered, but also annoyed and amused. They had quite unusual outfits. Gloves so the fingers could poke through. Navy blue peacoats. Some had lacy bohemian collars. Touches of finery and strange rings. The women and young men were uniformly attractive as if they could have been models from about the 1969 period. Then they were bums, and everything looked stretched and they looked prematurely old and tired and as if their clothes had not been washed for years. I couldn't figure out if they were beautiful or the ugliest people I had ever seen, almost lepers, or were they top stars. My ability to separate these two categories fluctuated wildly, and I wanted to scream but I didn't think my voice would work.

Then I was walking through the metro talking to a famous writer from forty years ago -- a lazy Beatnik writer -- who is somehow still alive but almost completely forgotten, although he does still get coverage in the NYT when he releases a book. However, no one reads his books or has ever read his books. He's an actual aquaintance of mine, and I often dream of talking with him but when I have the actual chance I can't stand him. We talked for a bit, and then I lost track of him, because I didn't know if he really wanted to talk with me plus his work had been in so I thought he must have been a sellout, and then I was in an old folks' home. I saw the sister of a very cute student that I used to fantasize about years and years ago. The sister was nowhere near as cute as her student sister, and in fact was lying on one side like a sea lion bellowing for help. Someone was administering a dropper of serum to help her with her pain. At that point a foot poked out of the wall and tickled my leg. It was the foot of the cute student! I was entertained and laughed, but wherever I went the foot kept following me and trying to tickle me. I tried to find a body but all I saw was the foot up to about the knee. I didn't really think the student's face or body were cute, but I admired her legs. I recognized this leg following me around and laughed as I tried to escape! she had such beautiful legs, and she always tried to pull my leg with some lie or two about why her work wasn't done! I could never figure out if she was a genius or a complete idiot I wanted to think she was a genius but sometimes she acted like a complete idiot! She was beautiful and then so ugly I was astonished. The transformations happened so quickly not in the dream this time but in life!!

In life I try hard to pretend I am making sense, and am on the ball, and competent and know what I think. But in dreams I guess I am what I am: just totally disconnected but often quite amused at the volatility of my ambitions and my sensibility. I have no real right to be amused, because unlike Alice, the world of my dreams doesn't even make allegorical sense. It just exists and is senseless although filled with sensory details. I am so lost! I am going to specific places but I have no home. The homes in which I do live in my dreams belong to someone else. I sometimes think it might be my home, but all kinds of other people float through as if they own it. They don't even recognize me as they walk past and yet I'm sure I have the deed to these houses somewhere if only I could find it. It's as if I'm at a party to which I haven't been invited and nobody knows who I am even though it's in my house! This seems very unusual but for INFJs like me it is probably a cliche.

I'm pretty sure I'm an INFJ. I think the INFJ has so little sense of himself because there are so few of us. I like coming here to find the other lost souls. In terms of an enneagram number I feel very fourish, but with a strong five wing, or very fivish but with a strong four wing. They are so hard to separate. In life I often cry or over just anything. I just found out that the singer Fiona Apple was raped when she was 12 and started to cry as I thought of it. It's so embarrassing to cry. People think I must be gay, but I am not at all, well, I don't hate guys, but I love waif-like women. I'm often looking for recognition so I guess it's social in terms of a subtype. That is, my dream self seems to be that way. But in my real life I pretend to be strong. I am a professor and I make hard clear decisions and try to hit salient points so the kids can study for the test. I give fair grades. I write clear and imposing articles and books. But inside I don't really have any idea what I am doing or why I am doing this except to line my pockets with enough wherewithal to put milk on the table for my kids. I used to think when I was younger this was a phase and I would grow out of it and become like other people but I am actually still about six to ten years old and even in dreams I look at myself and am old and then a kid, and fluctuate wildly on that, too. Identity seems to constantly go way up and down as if someone else has control of the knob. I laugh a lot about this, as friends turn into enemies, as cats become demons, and someone I hate suddenly becomes a friend, and I hate my family and then love them with almost crazy deliriousness. When I think about myself awake, I think of myself as a five with a four wing. The five part of me is competent and functions pretty well and has some sense of what it's doing so I have to use it to get anything done. But in dreams I rarely have any idea of where I am and am lost and there is a Kerouac feeling of being lost but deeply moved by things and loving the contours of faces and legs, and the beauty of clothing and the way clouds come out of industrial landscape smokestacks and shadows flit through alleyways. Then I'm usually far more fourish, and not hiding the fact as I used to have to do from my threeish family (my brother is the president of a huge bank, and my father was the dean of faculty at a big university, and I have another brother who runs a string of Target stores, and my mother is a one-ish ISTJ fussbudget who is constantly fussing with things in a neurotic way while trying to force you to take more pie, or tie your shoes, or comb your hair until I feel just insane). I am just lost, just completely lost, but I go along, but only on the surface, the real me is elsewhere, perhaps walking through Tianamen Square, or perhaps diving into a deep lagoon along with green sea turtles which I've become, but which I never tell anybody about for fear they'll think I'm nuts. In this dream I did at least get a signature from some music star and although I had lost all respect for him and his music I still have the form and am bringing it back to the music company where I work, to place in a file. It's a property deed. But everyone has already died long ago, even though somehow we're still living. In real life I love to have a place and keep everyone out of it. I can't stand it when people come in my office and when they do I want them to leave right away. I love to ban people from my house, and say, they can never come in here again. They stayed too long last time, or did something I didn't like, or are just too nervy for my taste. Then all my kids are in my room and playing and I'm playing with them, and although they are six and I'm decades older we are acrobats and clowns and making funny faces at each other.

The funny thing is that someone said (Thoreau?) that we live lives of quiet desperation. I guess. I do feel desperate. But there is so much amusement, too. I feel like someone has to be pulling my leg to set up this world and to have me live in it as I do. And then to give me these dreams. These endlessly funny dreams. Who am I? What am I? Do people really have the stable identities they claim to have? I think I sometimes identify myself as a lover of the obscure, but when these things become more mainstream I have to drop them to maintain my identity. I also like to love the things that hate and spurn me, but if they turn and love me I have to drop them. I know it's a cliche. It's a symptom. Does anyone know a way out of this circular wheel-like karmaic dysfunction?
 

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Do you ever get the feeling after listening to an exotic genre music or discussing strange ideas with others that the world just became deeper and more complex than you originally thought? This probably sounds cliché but it seems at times I stop understanding a topic and start feeling it.
Anyone relate?
I can definitely relate to that. I have quite a curiosity for the world as I know it and everything around me. :happy:
 

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Yes and then you get this WHOA experience and sit inside your mind the rest of the day to try and figure out the new network of connection points.
 

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Yess... :) And I love you guys, ever since I joined PerC and wandered in the INFJ section, and found out how we could related to many things that I thought was rare.
 
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