Plasma and Structures

© Robert Khaibullin, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0070-0677-4

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Plasma and Structures

Part 1

He placed the hot mug on the table. The sound of the action scattered throughout the room. The man disintegrated into molecules whose vibrations formed this very sound. The man was simultaneously the air, all the objects reflecting the wave, and the wave itself.

In periods when the sphere contracted to a certain degree, everything proceeded automatically, without overloads. The range of oscillations remained within acceptable limits relative to the vibrations of other spheres. Sometimes these were points with geographical coordinates, forming clusters. These clusters tended to compress larger spheres down to the size of the majority within the cluster. If they were clusters of spheres, they strove to expand the points inside themselves to a size similar to their own. The dynamics of changes in these points, spheres, and clusters — their mergers and displacements — gravitated toward a uniform distribution according to their ranges of expansion and contraction.

Cities and villages connected by roads formed clusters and pathways between them, covering the planet like categories with internal subcategories — fractally inward and outward. Their stabilities were distributed according to the vibrations of spheres within each subcategory by the distribution of an elusive thermodynamics, where everything is movement. Fixing the picture was conditional, probabilistic, limited by the subject’s perception — relative to the range of dynamics of the sphere of perception in the corresponding period and moment of the subjective gaze.

Sometimes the phenomenological topology folded into two-dimensional space. Details merged into a river. He moved along a Möbius strip.

The first morning sun rays, washing over the planet in a wave, activated the awakening people, animals, and birds, who moved in a wave at the call of metabolism, returning by evening to their previous places. Thus the averaged planetary morphism repeated itself. By morning, everything began anew.

Everyone speaks different words, each in their own way. Some words affect some people positively and others negatively. Sometimes they first affect others negatively, then surface at the right moment and influence positively, then negatively again, and vice versa. This has an oscillatory character. Words affect animals, fish, birds, and people to varying degrees, and possibly, at the molecular level, through waves, all objects in the form of their micro-vibrations.

Some people say, “I didn’t say that,” even though the audio recording clearly shows that they did. What could this be? Perhaps the subconscious erases the memory, having calculated that in case of discovering a contradiction, it would lose — losing a couple of thousand potential dopamine hits. This is somehow connected with mirror neurons. Perhaps it is adaptive micro-confabulation. Perhaps the statement was made in a state of micro-affect, or the utterance “I didn’t say that” itself was said in a state of micro-affect. It could be a habit, a pattern for neuro-optimization. On the other hand, it could be genes of impulsivity, temperament. It could be an inability to read one’s own memory — the memory is there, but it cannot be accessed due to an impulsive movement toward that memory, where the speed does not allow stopping at the right point and examining it. The gaze, by inertia, skips over that point, even on the second and third attempts. The subconscious and conscious accept these attempts as non-optimal and, in self-defense, choose energy-saving functions. Although a couple of thousand dopamine molecules and other peptides are not a great loss for long-term optimization, perhaps in some cases it is significant.

If research is correct, neurons seem to be drawn to each other, forming connections and fusing under certain conditions and with practice, at a speed of one millimeter every four days — roughly comparable to the average rate of hair growth on the head. Even if we discard this theory and simplify the brain as a neuro-architecture in three-dimensional space — neural highways where one can build bypasses and branches as additions to what already exists — these could be concepts in which clumps of energy can dissolve. Linguistic-logical structures that discharge tensions. For example, if a person lies, a micro-thermodynamic process arises in the body, which a lie detector can detect by reading increased sweating caused by agitation and elevated pulse.

If one looks at a refrigerator and says it doesn’t exist, the detector registers this as false information. But if a person is convinced that atoms consist of ninety-nine percent emptiness, and the refrigerator consists of atoms, then in reality it mostly consists of emptiness. Consequently, one can confidently say, with ninety-nine percent certainty, that the refrigerator does not exist. In that case, there is a probability that the detector will consider this information true, because the person will not be nervous. Theoretically, he is ninety-nine percent right, and his pulse will remain normal. This is hypothetical, yet still valid. Yes and no — this is the logic of George Boole, according to which multitudes of decisions flow. But between yes and no there are degrees and dynamics of yes and no, ninety-nine percent as the degree of atomic emptiness, the dynamics of yes and no, its relevance, its changeability over time, depending on the context from which one looks.

Yes and no can be simultaneously both wrong and right. The Möbius strip says that top and bottom are one continuous surface. The rhizome speaks of the absence of one main thing — the main thing is everything, everything is interconnected: microbes, metals in the body, algae. This is a kind of splitting. Perhaps it will not be beneficial, considering the subjective organism that has formed its own optimization paths over generations, its own ways of being. But if one remembers at least one new word, it is already a certain addition, an expansion of what already exists. There will be one more word’s worth of space for the electricity in the head.

Temperament, on the one hand, promotes life, but the matter is not only in *what*, but also in *how* — in speeds, dynamics, intensities.

Details can recede into molecules and cosmos, into silence, through the prism of abstract subjective logic, mathematics, animation mixed with a person who disintegrates into molecules and reassembles, splits in two, turning into two universes, each with its own world and internal worlds within.

In other words, it is like looking at anything that has difference and seeing difference. A picture in which there is at least something that differs from the background — where the background itself is the picture. Even if it is an empty white sheet, upon looking at which one can find differences: differences in perception, in vision. It is different for everyone — speaking of micro-shades, focus, coverage, range. A child has a small eye, an adult has a larger one, and the way it is processed in the head, and in time… If uniform light enters the eye, the subjective eye sees not only this light — it also sees some glares, darkenings at the edges, and movements. In the complete absence of light, light forms arise from memory: faces of people, events, and sounds — mixtures of memories of light and sound, taking shape inside the head.

In everyday life, the eye daily sees many differences: lines, colors, and shades, depending on where one is most often. In a room there are more straight lines and right angles — cabinets, chairs, nightstands, beds, boxes, tables, evenly glued wallpaper, floorboards laid uniformly. Everything influences the person. He himself becomes square and linear, unconsciously, partially. In the village — forest, river — everything is sinuous. The flora grows sinuously; if it is straight, it bends in the wind, forming waves. In general, it depends on which details we are talking about, what the subject is drawn to, and the situational context.

It is rather a geometric synthesis of curves and straight lines — an oscillating slider between a point and an infinite multitude of all possible and impossible forms.

On one hand, line and linearity are similar, but what does linearity mean? From birth to the end of life it is a line, but who remembers this line in full? Only fragmentarily. Even yesterday cannot be described linearly — it will rather be fragments limited to hours, minutes, rather second-long fragments. In other words, to say that life is linear, one needs to see it all at once, as a whole. Blinking divides the day into thousands of fragments. Linearity is connected with eventfulness, but those too are fragments, even if they smoothly transition into one another, because memories are fragments.

Linearity is also linguistics — the word “linearity” itself. Geometry as the forms of events unfolding in linearity. Intuition. Memory. Linearity as society: everyone knows that linearity and society exist, but no one has ever seen them entirely — just as with everything else in certain molecular senses.

If memory is erased, a person will not be able to realize anything. He will have nothing to operate with — neither words nor what he will see. He will exist in pure abstraction, yet still possess some molecular memory: how to breathe, how to walk, memory of certain functions. And what he sees, hears, and feels from the first fraction of a second will be what he needs to remember in order to have something to build upon. From that moment he begins self-learning. But how is he supposed to remember that he needs to self-learn if he remembers nothing — as in infancy?

Where does the cell remember that it needs to turn into a human being similar to its ancestors, and then begin self-learning? Perhaps memory from the cell to infancy is autonomous. It is partially an automatic process — partially because the cell grows in an environment. But does the environment have memory? Can memory and function be considered as one? If yes, then what exactly is this function, where are its boundaries? And how many sub-functions are there inside this function, how many super-functions outside? What is their topology? Does self-learning and adaptation always occur?

If one tries right now to remember something, the reason for this will be that the conversation is now about memory, and that reason is association. Association is what resembles the last thing from which thought bounces. But there can be many associations, and the priority one that dominates the others manifests itself at least because of the possibility of its expression through language in time. One cannot express all associations at the same time, but one can express them sequentially. Yet when the first association is expressed, will only those that were remain, or can two or more new ones come in its place? Because time moves on. Because if one thinks about something quickly it will be one thing, and if one thinks for a long time — another. There can be many variants here.

Temperament plays an important role in this context. Many actions might not have happened, but temperament and time do their work, forming orbital patterns of behavior.

If everything is functions and determinations, then they are as complex as cognitive capabilities allow. How to identify categories if questions of this kind are asymptotic?

Linearity is not simple. It is contextual. In the given context, if one looks at anything, it is not only itself — it is a totality, the singularity of these totalities. If what is observed is recognized, it means it is already in memory. Even if it is observed for the first time, it consists of multiple details from memory, is compared and identified instantly. Parts of it connect, forming something partially new. And the way it feels is assembled from such layers as the temperature of the environment, air humidity, the softness of the shoes the observer is wearing, atmospheric and internal pressure, lighting, level of metabolism, clothing, mood, electromagnetic activity, coronal ejections, sounds of the environment, wind, recent and distant events, radiation levels, and how the solar system was formed, potential future, and many unforeseen phenomena — all summed up and singularized into informational clumps acceptable enough to be thought. As well as the unthinkable — through the thinkable. Everything connects into one sensation, which is dynamic.

It is everything in one. It is observed. It can be a landscape. The landscape a person looks at, and the person the landscape looks at — they are one. There is neither subject nor object. This is a point of view through singularity, which can be divided into subject and object — that is, to compress the vision, the act of looking, the sphere of perception, down to a level of more confident orientation within it. Where confidence is knowledge and belief that it is so, and this is enough to live and perform functions with repeating patterns, but also with events and spontaneities. In other words, down to a level striving for automatism — beginning with the cell in the womb, which develops in a sense automatically. This cell is the future person, but he does not control his own development. It is rather determined — a kind of default function. One can say it is a reaction, a consequence, and at the same time a cause — part of a complex domino effect.

Here one can say that the manifestation of memory is the area between cause and effect, movement within the domino effect. And this domino effect is like an interweaving of all spaces, considering that time is part of three-dimensional space. Thus this effect is not only an interweaving of multitudes of multidimensional spaces, but also of times. Where three-dimensional space with conditionally linear time is the result of these interweavings.

If the functions of the cell and its memory of what the next step should be are automatic, then this too is likely the result of interweavings of spaces and times — the domino effect.

It is as if the result of fragmented views. But if one smooths the corners, connects the gaps, rounds and softens them, something formless arises, undifferentiated — water. Perhaps it is plasma. It is asymptotic nothingness. But when differentiations and differences appear, a sphere emerges with internal interweavings of spaces and times. Inside it is three-dimensional everyday life, familiar to the one who is within it. But as soon as the sphere begins to expand and cognitive endurance reaches its limit, it becomes similar to a space with an increasing multitude of everything imaginable — so much that it displaces the subject himself and seems to compress him from all sides. At the same time, the multitudes that compress him *are* himself.

In the opposite case, there is emptying and nothing to hold onto, no supports. The subject disappears, or increases — he becomes emptiness, which is also disappearance, but also dissolution into emptiness. Here the effects of expansion and contraction are accentuated.

The subject rather oscillates within the spectrum of genetic limitations, but with potentials that activate during cosmic synchronicity as well as synchronicity within spatial topology. Simply put, what happens in ordinary three-dimensional everyday life is the result of the rotation of all kinds of triangles and squares in n-dimensions — and vice versa. In their strange symmetries. But if one removes the angularity, the substance plasmizes. The subject, rotating along its orbit, makes a kind of jump to a neighboring orbital, but misses, and is carried away into a galactic arm, where he floats, passes through a plasma cloud. Multicolored glowing plasmoids the size of a ball fly up to him — some smaller. They study the subject, transmit impulses resembling electronic-bio-acoustic signals. One divided into two, changing its glow. Another became semi-transparent and began to grow, absorbing the subject and the others, then scattered into sparks. It seems they are simply playing, but cannot leave the boundaries of the plasma cloud. Meanwhile, the galactic arm swirled and threw the subject back to Earth, where he was born. Only later did he remember where he had come from.

“I arrived here from the galactic arm,” he said.

At that time, few yet knew one well-known fact.

Part 2

Returning back, he noticed something strange to the right, near his feet. It seemed as if a section of the asphalt had distorted. He lowered his head closer and saw himself as a child — tiny, the size of half a pinky finger — looking up at himself in fear and running away between suddenly growing, almost perfectly even stone slabs, each the size of a twenty-story building. He found himself among rocks, but his small double had disappeared somewhere. Moreover, he suddenly realized that his name was the same as that of one acquaintance. He was actually that acquaintance, although he distinctly remembered that the acquaintance had a different name. It was as if he had turned into a person he knew, but with a different name — not his own, and not the name of the acquaintance. He turned around and saw this acquaintance standing there in a hat by a campfire.

Mostly, when he woke up and opened his eyes, he did not immediately appear in the world. It took time for the world to load. He did not remember what happened in the first fractions of a second — something like a transition from darkness to light, a phase-undifferentiated area. It was the same the next day. He did not know what he would say. He met people he talked to, encountered acquaintances. He was born, grew up, spoke, but did not know in advance about what. First came the greeting, then something was said, and then what followed was based on what was said after the greeting. It all happened in the moment.

A person wakes up and does not know what he will say today, what the subtext of the day will be. Sometimes he prepares, waits, then goes somewhere specifically to talk, without knowing about what. The words may be roughly the same, but the order is always different. If he is not a singer or a poet, the order of words tends toward repetition — it circles around one thing. Sometimes he focuses his gaze on what he sees, saying exactly what the eye interprets. It enters the eye and is transformed into voice through subjective filters. The process of speaking includes what does not enter into speaking but is connected with it and affects well-being.

When a child learns to speak, it happens rather automatically. And only after he has learned to speak does he learn what he says. He learns the alphabet. Even if he graduates from the philological faculty, he understands that he does not understand more about words than before, yet he also understands more — entropically, equivalently — if he needs it. He rather invents what he has discovered. He thinks, attaches something to the thinking, invents, and shows it to others.

Words and deeds are different things that refer to the same. To speak, one must do what is visible. If one does something, it is both visible and not. If one thinks, it is not visible. One can remember something, and it will not be visible, yet it exists — even if no one sees it. But someone might see it and remain silent. Will someone see what another saw, and to what extent will he interpret it in his own way? If it is not visible but exists, then for others it does not exist, because it is not visible. But if those others are not visible, can it be that they exist but are not visible? Perhaps they exist in memory. They are not visible, but they are in memory, and there they speak — each their own.

If I am memory, and others are memory, and all of this is within one I, then I am also the others. If I see a wardrobe, I understand that it is a wardrobe because it exists in memory. When I look at the wardrobe, I am the wardrobe, and everything else that is in memory. But in the moment of looking at the wardrobe, all the rest of the memory leaves the field of concentration. It turns out that I am that upon which consciousness is concentrated. And this concentration is not always static — rather, it is dynamic and conditional. It turns out that I am a conditionally reflexive dynamic area of concentration in the field of associative memory.

And if the concentration in the field of memory had no reflection about what it itself is, then it is what it considers itself to be relative to its current scope of concentration. Perhaps, first of all, I am the symmetries of myself — people. Or I am that to which I assign value. It can be an inanimate object, things. But if I assign value to something, and it is me, then who assigns the value? This is a molecular question, micro-time, micro-interactions that form something larger. This larger thing is not one — there are many, and they generalize into something even larger, and at some level become molar, coarse-grained, where a threshold of accessibility opens for a person who himself is a spectrum, a cosmic differential, he thought slowly.

Finally, he reached the highway. In the distance, a destroyed city flickered. In places, among scattered pillars of smoke, lighter smoke contrasted. He understood that knowing the reason why this had happened would change nothing, and he simply moved toward the presumed halt.

Ahead was a supermarket, which he managed to make out through binoculars. Next to the forest, a farm was smoking. The supermarket was locked. He climbed through a broken display window and saw the cashier — long dried up, judging by the name tag: Spazhek. Spazhek had long been empty, like the dried farm vegetables. The only thing he found was a chocolate bar under the emptied shelves, which he managed to rake out with a racket.

“Thank you,” he said, placing a hat on Spazhek’s dry head. The head cracked with a crunch, broke off, and crumbled like a rusk when it hit the tile, from which keys flew out. He realized two things: the keys had been around the neck and they belonged to the bicycle chained in the parking lot.

On flat tires, he rode to the first house he came across, broke a window, and took shelter from the rain that had just begun to intensify. In the distance, thunder roared so loudly that Spazhek most likely completely crumbled. A prolonged rain was approaching. Judging by the layer of dust, the house had been empty for a long time, as had the kitchen shelves. The door to the pantry was unlocked. Going down the steps, he found another one — a locked metal door this time.

Searching all suitable places yielded no results. The key was neither under the vase, nor under the stones in the yard, nor on the shelves. In the garage lay a small crowbar. The gap in the door was smaller than the tip of the crowbar. There was no hammer. He used a stone, trying to drive the crowbar in, which was bent at an inconvenient angle for such work. It had already grown dark, although it had been dark by the door all along — now it became even darker.

Suddenly, the barking of dogs approaching the house was heard. He locked the first pantry door from the inside. Someone entered the house — it sounded like several people. The dogs immediately sensed his presence and approached the pantry door, barking and scratching. The sound of a shotgun being racked was heard. Suddenly, the metal door below opened, and a mechanical dwarf ran out toward the upper door. Opening it, he ran through the corridor, bypassing the dogs. The man with the shotgun pulled the trigger. The dwarf flew back about five meters. The metal pantry door was already locked from the inside.