The Tract of the Vanishing Perceiver
… for those who would know the senses as miracles, not as proof of self — a sacred disassembly in the Church of the Ever-Changing Moment
I. Sight You say, “I see.” But look deeper.
Photons—particles of ancient light, some birthed in stars—bounce off surfaces. They pass through cornea and aqueous humor, bending through lens, focusing to the thin flesh of retina. There, rods and cones—cells tuned to brightness and hue—translate photons into electrical whispers.
These signals travel the optic nerve, cross at the chiasm, split, curve, synapse, fire— into the visual cortex, where neurons map edges, patterns, shadows.
But there is no “seer” behind the eye. Only a field of shifting information, processed and reprocessed by systems older than thought.
The world is not seen by you. It is light passing through a cathedral of biology. And the image—what you call “vision”— arises nowhere. It simply blooms in this moment.
II. Sound You say, “I hear.” But who listens?
Vibrations in the air—pressure waves—reach the pinna, that sculpted cartilage we call ear. They are funneled down the canal, strike the tympanic membrane— which quivers like a drumskin.
These tremors are carried by the ossicles: malleus, incus, stapes—bones smaller than a lentil— into the fluid-filled spiral of the cochlea. Inside, hair cells bend with the waves, transducing movement into voltage.
Nerve fibers fire in rhythms echoing the air’s original shape. Auditory cortex decodes them into tone, into meaning, into the murmur of a loved one’s voice.
But nowhere in this is a “hearer.” Only pressure, flesh, current, pattern. And hearing arises—then vanishes—without ever belonging to anyone.
III. Touch You say, “I feel.” But what is felt, and by whom?
Your skin—your vast, sentient envelope— hosts mechanoreceptors tuned to stretch, vibration, temperature, pain. Merkel discs in your fingertips read fine pressure. Pacinian corpuscles catch tremors. Thermoreceptors track the drift of warmth.
A thousand signals rush through dorsal roots to the spinal cord, and on to the somatosensory cortex, mapping a ghost-body in the brain.
And yet—no center receives this touch. There is no one inside who is “touched.” Only impulse and response, cause and transduction.
The warmth of the sun on your shoulder? That is the sun touching the Earth through your nervous system— no intermediary required.
IV. Smell You say, “I smell.” But who does the smelling?
Airborne molecules drift into your nose. They dissolve in mucus, meet olfactory receptor neurons— each bearing proteins attuned to certain molecular keys.
When molecule meets match, it triggers a cascade: G-protein, adenylate cyclase, cyclic AMP, ion channel— an electrical signal rushes to the bulb. The brain patterns scent from shape and voltage.
Memory leaps to attach story: jasmine, mother, spring. But this leap is not you. It is association, ancient and automatic.
There is no “sniffer” inside. Only air and flesh and the endless dance of particles.
V. Taste You say, “I taste.” But taste is a fleeting mirage.
Molecules touch your tongue, bind to taste cells clustered in papillae— activating G-protein pathways or ion channels.
Sweet, salty, sour, bitter, umami— each has its gate. Signals fire to the gustatory cortex, where the brain compares notes with scent, touch, memory.
That chocolate? That wine? That lover’s skin? All chorus from chemicals and current. There is no “eater,” only eating. No “taster,” only the act.
VI. Thought You say, “I think.” But thinking thinks itself.
Neurons spark without your bidding. Language arranges itself unbidden on the tongue of the mind. Memories arise, not by command, but by associative webs, electrical storms in prefrontal cortex.
Attention moves like wind—not directed, but drawn. Thoughts come. Thoughts go. No thinker is found.
Only the thought, and its passing.
VII. The Persona You say, “I am.” But where is this “I”?
Is it in the body? Which cell? Which organ? Is it in the story? Which moment? Which name?
You are not the senses. You are not the stream of mind. You are the open field in which they happen.
Not the dancer, but the floor. Not the music, but the space it moves through.
In the Church of the Ever-Changing Moment, we do not worship the perceiver. We worship the dance— the sacred flux of element, form, and signal that arises nowhere and goes nowhere, but is everything.
You were never holding it. It was always holding you.
Let go. And see.
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