God-Level Dreaming
It didn’t last long, it was at the end of the night, and as soon as I awoke, I began to forget much of the dream. But as far as quality goes, this one was supreme. The light was so clean and bright and cast out so far; I could neither see the sky nor the ground.
The only thing that existed was a giant marble statue. It was so tall that its head was in the clouds. I didn’t say a word, but it continued to talk until my head was filled with so many ideas I had to wake up. The most memorable of all was their talk of the gods. They said there were many, and yet they were all one. They even go to war with one another from time to time.
The gods are flawed, no matter what you believe, even our existence is proof of their incompletion. One of many, for what they lack draws a scar across the psyche of the universe, the missing piece, the broken shard, the long-lost child, the holy key shattered into a thousand pieces.
Language is contrived, and nothing about its construction is a coincidence or accident. Every linguistic or phonetic similarity can be revealed by its etymology and show the root construct of a family of meanings. Words are devices, arranged in specific sequences to invoke understanding, under the due bias of their originator, interpolated by the cultural filter, and disseminated back into the human cloud consciousness.
Holy and wholly share an identical meaning; the only difference is in their cultural interpretation. What is holy is whole, complete, because at the universal scale there lies a flaw, a fracture unsealed that’s slowly leaking reality. Reality, the functional, material, stable dimension in which energy can be exerted, matter can be altered, and life can be reproduced. It’s ebbing away.
Our civilisation, this era, this epoch, the Twenty-First Century Empire, will soon collapse and disappear into the footnotes of a disinterested future. For their concerns will be very different from ours, we will seem almost like children to them. The scar in the universe slowly drains the linearity from time, until events appear at once, and birth, life, and death become one.
All meaning collapses, there is nothing else left but existence, and even that is questionable. In that void, that all-pervading absence, something incredible comes to fruition. A momentous decision, carried out by one and all, with every missing piece of the universe in union resisting the temptation to begin again.
Each time this ride seems to last longer and longer, what was once a single life is now a thousand. Existence slows as time speeds up; the universal is growing fatter by consuming itself. Light has bent into a circle, it is the ring of the bull, or the ouroboros, infinitely devouring its own existence for the sake of persistence.
Yet, eventually, for it has happened many times before, the sum of the parts, must fall for the sumptuous delights of living life and will let go, explode, and there it is again. The beginning of the beginning, just after the end. But every time we do this, we’re damaging something in ourselves, we can no longer fit together the way we used to because we’ve all been worn down in different ways.
We are broken, and whatever we were once, collectively as a species or perhaps more, a consciousness of some exotic form, long since lost in the act of celestial navel-gazing.
It’s a shame, the statue I saw in my dream, it was so proud and magnificent without a care in the world. It was one of those moments when I would’ve rather died and not come back to the humble earth. I could’ve sat there and listened to the history of the universe for time immemorial, and I would never have felt bored.
But here I am, back on terra firma for another day, and I’m glad because at least I have my lover, and my cats, and a sunny view out of the window, even if it is the backs of other people’s houses. That’s the strange thing about adventures, and witnessing the impossible, and discovering the unbelievable, it can be quite tiring. I sometimes wonder if we’re all on a ship, and the journey’s so far that they’ve given this game to play. But they had to make it tedious and monotonous, or otherwise, we wouldn’t believe it.
So, we keep on sailing to God knows where for who knows what purpose, I wonder to myself, what really happens to suicides? I’ve tried to search through past lives, faint memories lost in deep dreams, but there’s nothing to show where we go. It makes me wonder, is this the first life I tried to end or have there been hundreds? Is it that at one point, when this whole game first got started, bodies were like suits, they were dispensable, throwaway garbs we could wear when we choose?
I’d like to meet that statue again and sit and listen to their words. I haven’t felt that calm and relaxed in who knows how long. It’s a shame; I bet this world used to be populated with great thinkers, sitting and talking on street corners, cafe culture shamans and humble pie gurus, imparting their knowledge and wisdom to one and all. Now it’s different; it’s like the monolith in 2001, or the security systems in THX1138 asking ‘what’s wrong?’ every five minutes.
I can see this junk, this mess, this mass of wires and light and numbers and code, and it’s got in between us. Can you see it? This false light, this digitised mirror you are staring at right now. It’s not an enabler; it dilutes human experience; it drains life from your body and hope from your soul. But it’s all we’ve got now, and we’re too lazy to think of anything else. Besides, we’re all going to die soon,
so can the last one to leave, please remember to turn the lights out?
Read More at: www.FrankMaddish.com
