You say “apple” to me and I’m #1, glossy skin, insides, all that
And how in the hell does one navigate life, or enjoy a book, if they’re not a #1?! Reading a book is like watching a movie. I subconsciously assign actor’s faces to characters and watch as the book rolls on.
Yet #5’s are not handicapped in the slightest. They’re so “normal” that mankind is just now figuring out we’re far apart on this thing. Fucking weird.
EDIT: Showed this to my wife and she was somewhat mystified as to what I was asking. Pretty sure she’s a 5. I get frustrated as hell when I ask her to describe a thing and she’s clueless. “Did the radiator hose pop off, or is it torn and cracked?” “I don’t know!”
EDIT2: The first Star Wars book after the movie came out was Splinter in the Mind’s Eye. I feel like I got that title. What’s it mean to you?
I have some level of auditory imagination; I can play back something I’ve heard a few times, but it’s more like a ghost of the thing than feeling like it’s hitting my ears somehow.
The main non-verbal sense I use in my head is spatial. There is a 3d space that I can imagine objects within, rotate around, kind of analyze things about it. There is no visual component to this, yet it feels like it shares the space that the mind’s eye could see into.
I’ve described the closest thing I have to visual imagination as like many of the things that happen in the brain’s processing of images after the eyes: resolving patterns of light into shapes and lines, processing shapes into the sense of a particular recognized object. If I think about a tree, I definitely don’t see a tree in any sense. But I do sort of feel like I did just see a tree, just… without any sense of light or feeling like I actually did any seeing, metaphorical or otherwise. All the analysis, none of the pixels.
I have a little more of the seeing, but I also want to reach for your ghost metaphor. Imagining a tree for me is a little like seeing a tree, but quite a bit more like having just seen a tree.
I call this the curtain; when I imagine something, like a tree, I can’t see the tree. But it is still there; just like it is behind a black curtain, no images from the tree can be seen.