i find it difficult to discuss things like this. i become unsettlingly uncertain of what it is i know, and even less certain of what you (the abstract all y'all out there) know, and to what extent we can agree on what we have in common.
i know, for example, that my senses lie to me: there is sense-data being recorded by my retina, for example, but that's not what i see (for example, the world is actually up-side down, if i understand the optics of the eye correctly). so there's neurological processing going on that isn't necessarily faithful. we experience a lot of what i call "frog-vision": we only actually focus on a small percentage of the data coming in, and pretty much fabricate the rest.
and then there's the problem, of what a "thought" is. I'm not talking about a series of voltage-gated transmissions along the neural network, I'm talking about the information encoded by the transmissions. where does my own internal dialogue come from? and why is language so effective, when most of what we know about it, is entirely in undefined terms?
i dimly recall first learning to talk. it was as if a box opened, and all this stuff started unpacking itself. there was an intent to communicate, with a full knowledge of what that meant, far before i had the means to do so.
of course, i do not know if the "redness of "red" is quite so red for others, as it is for me. in fact, short of some kind of brain-transplantation, i don't think anyone can. and yet, even in our total ignorance of the actual subjective state of other beings, we still mange to interact, in ways that make it appear as if we understand each other, it's a bit mystifying to me.
of course, the chemical basis of a great many feelings is well-known. certain kinds of organo-phosphate poisonings have been known to trigger irrational rage, and the mood regulating effects of certain neurotransmitters is exploited in a dizzying array of anti-depressant medications. but, yeah, the chemistry doesn't do justice to the glory of love, or the harshness of abject terror, never mind the subtle shadings of "micro-feelings", like the ambivalence i feel about what I'm writing, even as i write it.
what I'm certain of is this: there's something going on besides what we can capture in data. something fluid, subtle, almost impossible to put into words. it's like the black layer they use in 4-color printing, to increase definition: it's not actually a color, and it ought not to make a picture look more "realistic" (RGB values, or magenta/yellow/cyan should take care of that), but it does.
yeah, consciousness is a problem. i seem to have some, but then...well, my brain has lied to me before.